The Metaphysicist's Club
by Camudekyu
Summary: EdWin Post-Series Plot!fic: If there ever was a case that was too big for Edward, Mustang, and the Abuse of Alchemy Division, it's this one.
1. The DoubleA

**A/N:** Took a vacation from fanfiction for about four years. But one BA in English later, and I'm back at it with a vengeance. This is going to be a long one. Already have 100 or so pages written, so buckle your seatbelt, put on your special 3D glasses, and please, tell me what you think. Rated M for language and acknowledging the existence of sex. Oh, yes, and Fullmetal Alchemist movie? What Fullmetal Alchemist movie?

**The Metaphysicist's Club**

**I. The Double-A**

A series of very loud, dull thuds called Edward's attention away from the morning paper and from his cereal. He checked his watch. It was only eight-fifteen on a Monday. If Edward's memory served him correctly, there should be no thudding until he had already left for work.

Holding the banister in one hand, Alphonse swung himself from the carpeted stairs into the hardwood foyer, where he skated out the remainder of his inertia and came to stop in the kitchen. The uneven texture of the linoleum made for more friction in his cotton socks, and Alphonse swayed his arms to gain enough momentum to put him in front of the refrigerator.

"What're you doing up?" Edward asked, checking the date at the top of his paper. It was indeed Monday. Alphonse's first class was not until noon.

"Good morning, brother," Alphonse replied before his upper half disappeared behind the beige door of the fridge. "I've plans this morning."

"Plans? Like what?" Edward heard a juicy crunch, and when Alphonse reappeared, he had an apple in his mouth and a bottle of milk in his hand. Alphonse said something as he hurried to pour himself a glass of milk, but the words did not quite make it around the apple. "What?" Edward asked.

Alphonse removed the apple and said, "I'm meeting Winry here in few minutes. She and I are going down to that new church."

Edward was not expecting that. "What church?" he asked, wrinkling his nose. Alphonse may have been less cynical toward religion than he, but they were both professed atheists.

"You haven't seen?" Alphonse asked after a long swig of milk that had Edward grimacing and shaking his head. Alphonse tugged the newspaper from his brother's hands and pulled the pages apart to reveal the local news section. He then neatly refolded the paper and handed the individual section to Edward.

"Letoist church dated to open May?" Edward read out loud. He turned a very skeptical look on his brother. "Tell me you're joking."

Alphonse rolled his eyes. "I'm not attending, brother," he said. Alphonse leaned over his brother, apple in one hand and milk in the other. With a knuckle, Alphonse pointed out a subheading in smaller print beneath the headline. "They're asking for volunteers to help get the church into shape before the grand opening."

That he would believe even if he did think it was a waste of a morning. "You're giving up your only morning off to support an institution you don't even believe in?"

Alphonse frowned. "Yes, I am. And it's not a waste, brother. In fact, I can't think of a better way to spend my time."

Edward did not have to hear his brother's invitation to know it was there. "I'm going to pass, thanks," Edward replied, putting down the article and pulling the rest of the paper closer.

"I bet you could get time off for a little community service," Alphonse suggested as he turned the article on the church around so he could see it. Most of the page was taken up by a rectangular, color photo of the skeleton of a round building being assembled around a towering statue of an austere looking man in a toga. "I've heard the statue is very impressive." Alphonse took a large bite from his apple and continued eyeing the picture.

"I've seen one," Edward said absently. "Big, stone guy with a beard in a dress. It's not all that impressive." Edward grinned when he saw his brother's full-mouthed frown.

"I think a Letoist might find that offensive," Alphonse crunched. "And they're robes, brother."

Edward glanced around. "Unless you've converted without telling me, Al, I don't see any Letoists in here."

Alphonse opened his mouth to argue but the sound of a quick, light knocking at the door stopped him. Launching himself into another swaying, skating gate, Alphonse slid into the foyer and disappeared from Edward's view. Skidding to a halt at the front door, Alphonse saw a familiar, rosy face peeking in through the oval-shaped window in the door. The beveled texture of the glass made her face appear wavy and distorted, but Winry's grin was clear.

Alphonse opened the door quickly and gestured Winry inside. "Right on time. Lemme get my coat," he said excitedly.

Winry put her hand on the back of her wooly hat and tugged on it, pulling up the front and revealing the pale skin of her forehead. "Okay. Did you manage to talk Ed into coming?"

Alphonse snorted. "Did I even try?" he asked from inside the hall closet.

"I'll take that as a no, then," Winry said, putting her hands on her hips. She leaned around the staircase and peeked down the foyer. She could see Edward's feet twitching agitatedly at the kitchen table. "Honestly," she said, loud enough for Edward to hear. "A little volunteering wouldn't kill him. Might make him look a little better in the public eye."

She heard Edward sigh. "I'm in the military not the senate," Edward drawled.

"I could be your PR representative, Edward. You know, make you look good. How about it?" Winry called down the foyer as she left Alphonse who was hunting through the hall closet for his coat.

"How about you stay away from my political agenda?" Edward replied. Winry could now see his blue clad legs stretching out under the table and two mismatched hands holding the edges of the newspaper, behind which the rest of him hid.

"What political agenda?" asked Winry as she came to a stop in front of the table, her hands on her hips.

"My secret political agenda. The one I don't tell snooping civilians."

"Oh, that one."

"_Yes_, that one."

Winry watched Edward jerk the paper straight when it started to sag. "You need to run for senate," she declared.

"No, I don't," he replied on the tail of her sentence.

That was their tradition. While Edward found it exasperating, Winry seemed to think that badgering him at least once a day would make him reconsider a campaign. Edward was grateful to get it out of the way early. When this time, like so many times before, proved fruitless, Winry stepped forward, hooked her finger over the top edge of the newspaper and pulled it down. Edward was waiting behind with a peeved glare.

"Good morning, Edward," Winry said grinning.

"Morning," he grumbled.

"Is this a newspaper you're reading?" she asked, pulling it from his hands. "You mean you knew that there was a world outside of yourself this whole time, and you never told me?" Winry scanned the front page and leafed over to the next.

"Aren't you clever?" Edward asked, standing up sharply and walking over to the sink.

"I think so," she replied sweetly, absently fingering the ragged edge of the paper.

After setting his bowl down loudly, Edward said, "Don't you have a house of god to be desecrating?"

"I think I'm going to be whitewashing it, actually." Winry glanced over at Edward, who was now sipping a mug of very black coffee with a rather stygian look on his face. Through the open front of his uniform coat, Winry could see that the collar of his shirt was crooked.

Winry sighed and folded down the newspaper. She set it aside with a soft rustle before walking over to where Edward was glaring at the floor and gloomily mouthing the edge of the mug.

"Move your arm," Winry said. When Edward did not comply, she pushed his arm with mug in tow aside and began fixing the buttons of his shirt.

He looked down at her hands and rolled his eyes. "I can button my own shirt, thanks."

"This is the kind of stuff a PR person would do," Winry said, ignoring his commentary. "I'd make sure you don't look silly in public." She untucked his shirt brusquely and fixed the last button.

"I'm not running for senate."

"Not today at least."

Winry heard Alphonse call her name from the front door. Before stepping back, Winry pulled Edward's coffee mug to her mouth and took a quick sip. "Are we still on for dinner tonight?" she asked.

"Seven-thirty sharp," Edward replied.

"You think Al can make it this time?" Winry asked

"You'll have to ask him; it's his homework."

Winry smiled. "All right, see you later." She swatted his arm affectionately.

"See you."

Edward watched Winry wave over her shoulder before disappearing down the foyer. He listened to her exchange a few cheerful words with his brother before the front door opened, four feet plodded heavily over the threshold, and the door closed.

And his house was quiet once more. The dense fog outside the kitchen window blocked the morning sun from stretching its usual yellow square across the linoleum, and Edward reminded himself that he liked having the house to himself. He looked down at his rumpled shirt, now buttoned straight but partially untucked. With a snort, Edward set down his mug and began fixing himself, all the while frowning as though he were being terribly inconvenienced. Winry knew he did not take off his coat at work; his automail was dark enough to show through his shirt, and he would rather skip the stares if at all possible. If she cared so much, Edward thought, why could she not give him a free tune up once in a while? Now that he could use.

After straightening his shirt and buttoning up his coat, Edward checked his pocket watch. It was just after eight-thirty and nearing the time he loaded the files he had been looking over the night before into his brief case, tossed it and himself in the car, and left for work.

At eight-forty, Edward lumbered down his stairs, grimacing at the feeling of his tall boots snug around his calf. Edward paused at the hall closet and donned his overcoat. Keys and brief case in hand, he stepped out in the brume. Under the low, steely sky, the street looked especially grey and tenebrous, and Edward turned up his collar – more for the security than for physical comfort.

His car, a heavy, black machine of Amestrisian make, waited for him in the drive adjacent to his house. He was glad to see that it was all in one piece but knew that that did not necessarily mean that it would start. The car had been more of a gift to Winry than anything else; Edward had given it to her with the promise that she could disassemble and reassemble it on his days off as long as it was able to run when he needed it. Edward also made her promise that she would never drive it. Winry had been insulted, calling him sexist and a bigot; Edward had replied that the ban had nothing to do with her gender.

After scraping the windows clean, Edward climbed into the driver seat and tried the ignition. The engine rumbled to life, and Edward sighed with relief – not that he really had reason to expect the car not to start; Winry always put it back together in better shape than it had been before.

In a smoother, quieter vehicle than he had had the morning prior, Edward pulled into the road and drove resignedly to Central Headquarters.

The Abuse of Alchemy Division of the military's Investigations Bureau was infamous. Renowned for bringing down the country's most dangerous men, legendary for muzzling fusions of anthropophagic animals squeezed together into the same skin, notorious for saving humanity at least once or twice a year, the members of the Double-A were no strangers to hazard pay. Why was it then, Edward wondered, was his position as de facto spearhead of the Double-A officially called a "desk job?"

He had a desk. He even sat at his desk occasionally, typically less than three times a week. So then, presumably, Edward did his job from a desk at least once a day for less than three days a week. Did that constitute a desk job? It did if you were the first subordinate, administrative assistant, and general office bitch to the official Director of Alchemic Investigations. Who, it appeared, had opted out of coming to work on time for the fifth time in two weeks.

Edward walked through the door to his office minutes after Lieutenant Ross.

"Good morning, Edward," Ross said as she straightened a short stack of papers in the middle of her desk.

"Morning," he said flatly. He heard Ross give him a disapproving snort.

"How'd it go, Friday?" she asked.

Edward threw back the chair to his desk and sat heavily. "Don't ever leave me alone with him again, especially not on a slow day. I got to sit here and listen to him listen to himself for eight hours!" Ross smiled. "You may think it's funny, but it's not."

"I'm sure it was a good experience at heart, Ed. The General is a fascinating man in his methodology."

"Yeah, if you're female," Edward muttered. Ross cleared her throat very loudly. "Speaking of General I'm-Too-Good-To-Come-To-Work-On-Time."

"I haven't seen him. He's probably in transit."

Edward rolled his eyes and heaved himself up to his feet. "My ass, he's in transit. He's probably asleep." Edward approached the General's desk then threw a mischievous smirk over his shoulder to Ross. "While we're waiting, I suppose I'll make myself comfortable."

Before Ross could protest, Edward fell with a sigh to the General's chair. He then helped himself to the paperwork waiting in the inbox. "Let's see what I have to do today."

Ross stood up brusquely. "That's not your-"

"Pipe down. I'm going to tell you what it says," Edward reassured her. "You don't actually expect him to do anything with this but delegate, do you?" Edward asked skeptically, gesturing to the first page.

Ross looked wary, but there was no denying the truth. She started and frowned when Edward dropped his feet loudly on the desk. As Ross opened her mouth to reprimand Edward, the sound of leisurely footfalls in the hallway interrupted her. Both Ross and Edward looked toward the entrance, and Ross gestured quickly behind her back for Edward to get out of the General's chair. Edward, of course, ignored this.

"Good morning, inmates," a jovial voice called before First Lieutenant Havoc filled the doorway with himself and cigarette smoke. "Open the windows, I'm here," he announced as he sauntered in and set a cardboard cup tray on the corner of the General's desk.

"Coffee?" Ross asked, eyeing the cups as Havoc distributed them, leaving the fourth cup steaming in its slot.

"Who are you, and what have you done with Havoc?" Edward asked after accepting his cup.

"Don't say I never did anything for you," Havoc replied smugly. He sipped his cup contentedly and took a short step back. For a moment, he and Edward eyed each other. "Why, General. You've done something different this morning." Edward rolled his eyes. "Did you change your hair? Your uniform?" Havoc rubbed his chin. "Oh, I know," he concluded, "It's your height."

Ross snorted into her coffee inelegantly. "Har har har," Edward grumbled. "Never gets old, does it?"

"Nope." Havoc grinned, knowing that, at least in that avenue of teasing, he was completely immune. He pulled a paper napkin out of his pocket and handed it to Ross who was trying to wipe at the coffee spilled down her front. "Picked these up just for you."

"Thanks," Ross mumbled, turning slightly red.

"So," Havoc sighed, leaning casually against the General's desk. "What's he got in for us today?"

Edward, holding coffee in one gloved hand and papers in the other, sipped as he scanned the first page. "Looks like… a couple of things for Senator Perry."

"I'll take that one," Havoc interjected.

"I bet you will," Edward muttered. Havoc's wife worked as Perry's clerk on Mondays. Since she was hired, Mondays had been rather Havoc-free, which, as far as Ed could tell, was not necessarily a bad thing.

"What is it?" Ross asked, ignoring the exchange.

"I'm guessing further research for the Agricultural Alchemy bill." Edward flipped the first page forward with his index finger and scanned the second. "No surprises. It works better. It grows faster. Blah blah blah."

"It's more expensive," Havoc said over the lip of his paper cup. "Therefore, it will never pass," he concluded.

"How's that?" Edward asked.

"Alchemists work by the hour. Illegal immigrant labor and cow manure do not." Havoc shrugged.

"Moving on," Ross said firmly, before Havoc and Edward could get into that debate, one they had certainly had before. Edward snorted and looked back to the papers.

"It's our favorite: reports from the weekend," said Edward as he lay down and spread out the remainder of the stack. Both Havoc and Ross rolled their eyes. "Crime doesn't sleep," Edward drawled.

"But alchemists do," Ross said. "Those are _all _police reports?"

"Unfortunately." Edward picked up the first one. "Someone put another hole in Fifth Avenue. I'm surprised anyone noticed."

Ross brought the next report up to her eyes. "Something big and winged was spotted on the south end."

"A bird, maybe?" Havoc asked sarcastically.

With a frown, Ross replied, "The woman who filed the report said it had hooves. Do you know of any hoofed birds?" She looked back down and flipped to the second page. "Sounds like Selby's MO."

"Good ol' Farmer Selby," Havoc drawled wearily.

"Let's hope he's only combining farm animals, this time," Edward said. He leafed through the remaining reports. "Looks like another complaint about noises coming from the lab, a missing person, a handful of strange animals, and another guy violating his TRO."

Havoc stalked over to Edward's chair and sank down loudly. "Aren't there police in this town? I mean, a temporary restraining order? Is that really our jurisdiction?"

"If it's alchemy, they won't touch it," Edward said dully. "We'll be saving kittens from trees any day now."

"Don't be ridiculous," Ross said, scolding them both. Edward and Havoc looked at her morosely. "We'll be saving chimera-kittens from man-eating trees."

"All for the greater good," Havoc said, raising his coffee. Ross smirked and raised her coffee back. "To the alchemy police. May we be remembered for more noble things than slapping the wrists of every schizophrenic alchemist to violate his injunction." Havoc rolled his eyes and downed the last of his coffee.

"I'll drink to that," Ross muttered, raising her cup to her lips as well. She paused, the edge of her cup hovering just before her mouth. A veil of gloom settled on her face. "You know, I'm not an alchemist." She looked at Havoc and said matter-of-factly, "I don't know a thing about alchemy. What _the hell_ am I doing here?"

"Yes, get it out of your system early, Lieutenant Ross," a voice sighed from the hall. Despite their expressed apathy, both Ross and Havoc snapped to attention, their right hands held in knifelike rigidity to their brows. Edward showed his obeisance by sliding his feet to the corner of the desk and off the General's calendar.

Brigadier General Roy Mustang strolled in, looking rather like he had been meandering the hall and happened to swing into that one particular office. He saluted back to Ross and Havoc before giving Edward a one-eyed glance blander than milk. "Good to see you all hard at work without my instruction."

"We were just dividing up the cases. Not like we need you for that," Edward replied. Taking his coffee in one hand, Mustang came to loom over Edward, who was still lounging comfortably in the General's chair.

"Technically, you need me to open the covers of those files marked classified, but you've _apparently_," Mustang punctuated by sweeping Edward's feet off his desk brusquely, "helped yourself, Fullmetal. You've your own desk. Go warm it up." Edward scowled but stood up anyway. "Anything exciting this morning?" Mustang asked as he sank to his chair and flipped through the spread on his desk.

"'Nother hole in Fifth," Edward said flatly.

"Really? I'm surprised anyone noticed," Mustang replied. Both Havoc and Ross laughed at that. Edward frowned; they didn't laugh when _he_ said it. "We've a deranged, potholing alchemist on our hands. Fetch the arsenal," he said dryly.

Since Havoc appeared reluctant to give his seat back, Edward leaned against the side of the desk he shared with Ross. He crossed one ankle over the other and finished the gritty dregs of his coffee with a sigh.

"Oh, yes, I almost forgot," Mustang said in his off-hand casual cadence that he used for just about anything. "This was waiting in my inbox downstairs this morning." Brandishing a smudged white enveloped, Mustang waved it at Edward. "Why it came to me, I'm not certain."

"Maybe it's because you're supposed to be in charge," Havoc muttered to Ross, who snorted and then gave him a look of censure.

"It's for me?" Edward asked, standing up.

"Yes, it was sent here, attention to you, though I didn't notice that until I had opened it. It was written to you." Mustang held the envelope between his gloved index and middle fingers, and when Edward reached to take it, Mustang flicked it away. "Interesting correspondences you have, Fullmetal."

Edward glared. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"What was it?' Havoc asked, grinning. "Naked pictures and love letters with little hearts over the _i_'s?" Havoc drew a heart in the air with his index finger as he spoke. Ross let out a long-suffering sigh.

"Not quite," Mustang said flatly. "You didn't mention your were in communication with the Tringhams."

"I'm not. And how do you know the Tringhams?" Edward asked, snatching the letter from Mustang's hand.

"The name Tringham has had more alchemic mud slung at it than the name Elric," Mustang explained before smirking at Edward's deepening glare. He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair as Edward returned to his perch on his desk and slipped his fingers into the torn envelope. "I suppose it's only fitting that you and Nash's sons are in cahoots."

"Nobody's in cahoots," Edward muttered rather distractedly as he read the letter.

"Cahoots, you say?" Havoc asked, exaggerated interest in his voice.

"There are no cahoots being had!" Edward snapped, glaring over the top edge of the tri-folded letter. The room fell quiet as they waited for Edward to finish reading. Mustang watched Edward's eyes as they danced across the lines from one side of the paper to the other. When Edward had fed the entire letter through his grip and was holding the bottom corners, he started again at the top and reread.

"Well," Ross said, breaking the silence. "What does it say?"

Edward exchanged a quick but heavy glance with Mustang over the top of the page. "Nothing important," Edward said casually. "It's an invite."

Havoc's face dropped. "That's it?"

"What were you expecting?" Ross asked, leaning her elbow against her desk leisurely.

"I don't know," Havoc replied, shrugging. "A tip on another alchemic threat to humanity or something." Ross snorted and rolled her eyes.

"Looks like Russell Tringham just got himself engaged. He's throwing a party. Why he'd think I'd want to come is beyond me," Edward said, refolding the letter and slipping it into his pocket.

"Are you acquainted with the Tringhams?" Ross asked. She looked at Edward with a veiled expression. Something behind her dark eyes hid, and though Edward could not entirely read it, he thought he could see the silhouette of doubt there.

"I had the misfortune of meeting Russell Tringham and his little brother Fletcher in Xenotime a few years ago. They were impersonating us to infiltrate a lab there," Edward said noncommittally as he walked behind Havoc and took the free chair at Havoc's desk.

"Us?" Ross asked.

"Alphonse and me."

"Really? What were they up to in the lab important enough to risk something like that?"

Edward shrugged before leaning his chair back and plopping his boots down on the desk. "Never found out. It was something local, I heard."

There was moment of silence through which Ross's incredulity was almost audible. "Well, as fascinating as I'm sure this must be," Mustang said as he held up a police report, "I think one of you had better find your way down to the home of one Mister Jacob Selby and ask him what the hell he's doing now."

"What do you recommend?" Ross asked.

"Bring your night stick and hand cuffs," Mustang said, tossing down the file. "Better yet, take a sheriff or two."

Ross stood up and pulled her overcoat off the back of her chair. "Do you really think that is necessary, sir?"

Mustang was already leafing through another file. "Apparently, he's unleashing flying goats on the suburbs of Central. I'm scared for my life. Check out that pothole in Fifth while you're out there. That is, of course, if you can tell the alchemic ones from all the regular ones."

Edward stood resignedly and followed behind Ross, donning his overcoat as he left. 

A landscape of bleak, black, pockmarked earth yawned before them. Years of cracks from grueling weather and weathering stretched into the forlorn distance and out of view. A few feet away and to the right, the bones for some poor, dead animal shone grey and brittle in the diffused light. Edward toed a chunk of dry, crumbling stone gloomily. He let out a saturnine sigh.

"Doesn't this town have a DOT?" Ross asked as she scanned the battlefield that was Fifth Avenue.

"Apparently not," Edward replied flatly.

"You know," Ross said as she began to walk the faded, uneven yellow line down the middle of the barren street. "I joined the military just after the lift of the Dracmese embargo, right before the Ishballan conflict. I thought there would be so much meaning."

"Save it, Ross," Edward replied, strolling next to her.

"I told my mother I would be serving such a noble purpose. My father and I took a picture together in our uniforms. I was just a private then, but I had such incredible hopes," she continued wistfully.

After leaving Central Command Center, Edward and Ross drove nearly an hour to the south end, where the suburbs bled into the rural stretches of nothing. They found the location where a chimera had alleged been spotted the evening before. After interviewing the woman who made the report, they headed less than a block away to Selby's farm to find the old man pleasantly demented and harmlessly adhering to the writ of injunction barring him from performing any more alchemy. With some very shrewd deduction on Ross's part, they plotted out the exact path that the wingless, unaltered goat took from the hole in Selby's fence to the woman's roof the night before.

"How did you end up here, anyway?" Edward asked. "In the Double-A, I mean."

"Well," Ross began, slipping her hands into her pockets. "I was under Brigadier Hughes, and he headed up Court Marshall Affairs. That left my name floating around the Investigations Bureau, what was then just the Investigations Department, and I suppose, when it came time for the reformation…" she looked skyward for a moment. "I don't think the reformation was handled as well as it could have been."

Edward snorted. "You and the rest of the military."

"You're disappointed, then?" Ross asked.

Shrugging, Edward replied, "I just think it would be more humane to do laboratory testing on politicians and lawyers instead of white rats." Ross laughed. "I'm not disappointed. I didn't have many expectations for this country, and the few I did have were _really _low."

"That's painless, I suppose."

"Don't get me wrong. I think there are a lot of things that need fixing. But my life is complicated enough as it is without losing sleep over something as inexorable as the failings of Senate." Edward paused, then continued, "Plus, I've seen places in worse shit than disorganization and the tail end of an economic recession." Nothing Edward could image could beat Germany teething on another World War.

"Is that so?" Ross asked, snagging Edward's sleeve and guiding him toward the crumbling sidewalk as a car approached joltingly. "I didn't know you traveled."

"If you want to call it that," Ed replied as he switched places with Ross, putting himself closer to the street. Ross smiled at him, reminding Edward that what he had just done was gentlemanly; he had not even noticed.

"You've always been this covert, haven't you?" Ross asked suddenly.

Ed flinched away from her slightly. "Your point?"

Ross laughed. "That's funny. _You_ asking _me_ to be explicit."

"Did it occur to you that if I don't disclose something, it's because I don't want to?" Edward asked, rather defensively.

Turning sharply on her heel, Ross stopped and faced Edward. "I've only your best interest in mind, _sir_."

Ed rolled his eyes. "Don't bring rank into this," he drawled and continued walking.

"You're _my_ superior!" Ross stood her ground and spread her hands.

"I know!" Edward snapped. "Thanks for reminding me."

Jogging a few steps forward, Ross came to Edward's side and picked up his pace. "What was in that letter that you think Havoc and I are safer not knowing?"

"Don't take it personally. I'd rather Mustang didn't know either."

"That's irrelevant, Edward."

Edward did not feel like giving a reply, and Ross was too frustrated to continue arguing, so they rounded the corner in silence. Somewhere in the low hanging sky, thunder grumbled its disgruntled opinion. Ross watched through her peripheral vision as Edward cast his gaze downward and flipped up the collar of his coat against a rising gust.

When the dust from a nearby construction site began to choke her, Ross covered her nose and mouth with her sleeve and turned her squinted gaze toward Edward. "We should find the car," she suggested.

Edward, who was likewise shielding his face, nodded. They darted into an alley to wait out the clogged wind.

"Yuck," Ross said, dusting her sleeves roughly. "Where did all this come from?"

Edward's brow suddenly furrowed and he leaned out of the alley to look down the road. "What street are we on?" he asked.

"South Main now. Why?" Ross replied as she attempted to shake the red powder from her uniform pants.

Edward thought for a moment. "I've got something to do out here before we can head back," he said before stepping back into the now dying wind and ignoring Ross's protests.

He could not deny that he was a little curious. Truly the last religion Edward expected to find popularity in Central was Letoism. He had believed the practice itself had been forgotten, ground to a fine powder under the heel of obloquy and war, a powder too similar to sand to be distinguished. A few years back, while on a book binge for a case, Edward had stumbled upon a religious text, the Book of the Sun, it was called, misplaced in the periodicals. As it did now, Edward's curiosity overtook him, and he eventually abandoned his original intention and settled down to read two hundred pages of the first religious writings he had touched since his very young childhood. From the first pages-absurdly fatuous myths about creation and humanity's dubious roots-Edward thought Letoism to be nothing more than a medley of blatant hypocrisy and misogyny. He wondered how a person could swallow such sanctimonious insincerities, spoon-fed to him by liars like Cornello.

Now, standing outside the pristine, stone and plaster shell of a House of Lies, Edward considered taking Winry and Alphonse to that library and showing them just what they were condoning. He pictured Winry in the shawls and hoods the twenty-first canto of the Book of the Sun said women should demurely don, and he laughed.

Edward heard Ross jogging up behind him now that the wind and dust had settled. "Edward?" she asked as she came to a stop at his left. Edward could hear an assortment of questions in her voice and opted to ignore them all. Instead, he put his hands to the heavy, oaken door and leaned. The door creaked open with some effort, and Edward entered as casually as he could.

The first room upon entry was the cornerless, yawning sanctuary, topped with a high ceiling fitted over a square frame of heavy-looking wooden beams. Spaces for six arched windows interrupted the curve of the wall high above the partially finished, tiled floor. The grandest aspect of the sanctuary, towering high above the wooden pews set in expanding circles from the center, was the statue of Leto himself. Now Edward could see why a person might be impressed, though he was quick to reassure himself that he was entirely not. Were it simply a massive, east facing statue of a bearded man, Edward would have scoffed; however, this statue, marked with a plaque intimating the exact location in the desert from where the statue had been taken, was a three-sided monstrosity, depicting the same man at three different ages: innocent yet determine youth; confident and bearded adult; and stooped and wise elder.

"Look who decided to show up!" a familiar voice announced from Edward's left. He jumped and spun around. Crouching on the floor, screwdriver in hand, Winry beamed up at him.

"Gimme a coronary," Edward sighed, feeling his heart fluttering.

"Sorry," Winry said as she rose to her feet, dusted off her knees, and slipped the screwdriver into her pocket. "I wasn't expecting you to wander in here voluntarily. Aren't you supposed to be at work?"

"Technically, I am," Edward said. He gestured behind him where Ross was just entering the church and eyeing the cathedral ceiling. "We had to check something out down here, and I thought I'd drop in."

Winry smiled. "Oh, thanks. Well, you're just in time. My shift ended," Winry checked her wristwatch, "three minutes ago."

"Where's Al?" Edward asked.

"He's—hi Lieutenant Ross," Winry said when Ross noticed her and waved. "He left at eleven for class. I'm getting ready to head out, too, but I wanted to finish this up." She pointed to the hinges on the door. "They had me mortising all morning."

"Wow, sounds like fun," Edward said sarcastically. "Sorry I missed it."

"Well, there's still plenty of work left to be done and character to be built if you want to show up tomorrow," Winry said hopefully.

"If Edward can't stand working for a salary, I doubt he would intentionally work for free," Ross interjected, eyeing the tarps draped over the incomplete stained glass windows. Winry chuckled, and Edward glared. "How do you plan on getting home?" Ross asked quickly before Edward could offer his rebuttal.

"I _was_ going to walk, but since I forgot to bring my lunch, I thought I'd get a cab." Winry said. Edward snorted at her carelessness, earning himself a swat to the gut. "Shut up," Winry snapped at him.

Ross smiled at the exchange. "We could drive you, if you like."

"What? She lives on Memorial; her house is entirely out of the way!" Edward interrupted. Winry swatted him again, harder.

"Your chivalry moves me, Edward," Winry growled. She then turned to Ross and said more gently, "If it's not too far out of your way, I'd really appreciate it."

"Certainly," Ross said. "We're heading for the car now."

"Lemme talk to the foreman. I'll be right back," Winry said. She swatted Edward again for good measure as she jogged away.

After announcing her departure, Winry left the church flanked by Edward and Lieutenant Ross. They swapped a handful of complaints about the weather and headed for the car, parked along the sparsely populated curb of Fifth Avenue. Judging by the look Edward threw at Ross as he opened the car door for Winry and hesitated before sliding in after her, he would brook no teasing or mention of the fact that they had driven down with Edward at the wheel and Ross in passenger seat.

Winry took her seat on the driver side and tucked her feet up on the seat next to her. She was marginally surprised to see Edward fall into the seat next to her, and the rather evasive expression he was giving his knees told Winry that he was a little surprised, too. So, just to make him uncomfortable, Winry slid a little closer and, with a wide, unabashed yawn, leaned against his shoulder.

Ross glanced at the two in the rearview mirror, Ed looking rather pink and Winry looking rather content. With an inward smile, Ross turned the ignition. The engine rumbled like a protest but started smoothly. With what Edward thought were overly cautious glances in the mirrors and blind spot, Ross pulled into the road. Winry's eyes shot open and she sat up as soon that tires hit the first gully in the pavement.

"When was the last time someone checked this car's shocks?" Winry whined, bouncing gently in her seat.

"It's not the car," Edward drawled.

Once they turned off Fifth and onto smoother terrain, Winry settled back against Edward, leaning her temple against his flesh shoulder. Ross heard Edward sigh loudly and smiled, careful to keep her expression out of Edward's view.

The ride to Winry's apartment was not a terribly long one, but Ross could understand why it would not be a welcomed walk on an empty stomach. They traveled in a comfortable hush, filled with the purr of the engine, Winry's sleepy grumbles and easy breathing. Ross heard Edward clear his throat with what sounded like anxiety, and she looked in her mirror instinctively. Edward, slouching as he always did, was looking sheepishly to his left at Winry-specifically, Ross imagined, at the revealed pale skin above the scoop neck of Winry's shirt. In the hemoglobin high tide, Edward quickly looked out his window and cleared his throat again. Ross had to keep herself from chuckling. Edward would certainly have himself a paroxysm if he knew she had seen him do something so uncharacteristically boyish.

The car pulled up to the curb of Memorial Parkway, just below the large, concrete steps leading up to Sullivan and Rockbell's Prosthetics and Winry's flat above. The hanging sign over the door, creaking loudly in the wind, was new, which Winry usually pointed out when with an audience. She had been promoted to partner within the last month, and the sign had only been displayed for two weeks; however, Winry was too busy rubbing her eyes and yawning to indicate the shiny sign to Edward for the umpteenth time.

Edward opened the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. He held the door for Winry before making impatient gestures to make her hurry up.

"Gimme a second, Ed," Winry said as she swung her legs out of the car. "Jeez, where's the fire?"

Though he would never admit it, Edward did not want to be accused of lingering with her. Instead he said, "I told you it was out of the way. We've only got the car for so long."

"Right, right," Winry said, giving him a dismissive wave as she climbed out of the car. She smiled at Edward's frown. "Thanks for the ride, Ed."

He snorted and looked away. "Don't get used to it."

"Gimme a call when you get off work. Al said he was good for dinner tonight, so you better be there. Got it?" Winry stuck an accusatory finger in Edward's face and scowled dramatically.

"What're you pointing at me for? I'm not the one who missed last week," Edward said, putting up his hands.

"'Cause Al's not here for me to point at," Winry responded bluntly. A warm smile quickly replaced her feigned frown. "Even though I seriously doubt you'll remember to call me, call me."

"Sure," Ed drawled.

Winry sighed and shook her head wearily before jogging up her stairs. She paused at the door and turned back. "Thanks again for the ride!" she called and waved at Ed.

"You owe me one," Edward called back before getting into the front seat. As soon as he closed the door, Edward felt Ross eyeing him. Edward whipped his head around and gave her a glare. "Shut up," he hissed before slouching and scowling forward.

Ross let out a long laugh before sighing, "Okay." With that, she started the car and set off for Central Command Center, Edward sulking as loudly and largely as he could.


	2. Family

**A/N: **Chapter two is rather short, so I'm putting up 2 & 3 simultaneously. Thanks, y'all.

**II. Family**

Less than a block from HQ, three to five minutes walking depending on the weather, was the smallest bar still in business in Central. Tucked between a behemoth of law firm and what Mustang could only assume was another bar, the Merlion was exactly what an otherwise high-profile officer needed after work. This was perhaps the only reason why the Merlion still opened its door at noon and still threw out the drunks at two in the morning; most of the patronage were politicians or military with the occasional judge squeezed in around the hem. So, while the building was small, the brew selection was all right, and the hookers were catching wind of its existence, the government of Amestris could not afford to lose the Merlion. There, a prestigious man could be just another bum with immunity. In fact, the fragile social balance of the bar – often the mutual agreement that I will not blackmail you if you do not blackmail me – kept the owner, known only as Charlie, in perpetual business.

Edward had first been dragged into the bar already drunk, which later proved to be the best way to get him in. Only after much persuasion and a handful of Havoc's perfunctory guile did Edward enter the Merlion sober. Further convincing was required when a sleek looking young woman in a very snug dress approached Edward and said something low enough for only him to hear. Though Mustang and Havoc got a jolly kick out of watching Edward squirm, the youngest officer was supposed to be paying that evening, and they needed to keep him there.

Now, perched on the squeaky barstools that could make a quarter turn at best, Major Edward Elric, Brigadier General Roy Mustang, and First Lieutenant Jean Havoc sloughed the onuses of the day and tucked into the cheapest drink on tap; it was Havoc's night to pay.

Havoc took a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket, flipped open the top, and pulled one out with his teeth. While doing this one-handedly, Havoc, patted down his other pockets for his lighter, which he found and brandished gratefully. With a string of contented sounds, Havoc breathed the cherry into red-hot life then exhaled a curling puff of smoke toward the heavens. Mustang made a display of leaning away.

Havoc took a long drag off his cigarette and leaned toward Mustang. "Whhhaaat?" he asked, expelling a little stratosphere just for the General. Mustang scowled and waved a hand in front of his face before ordering a refill.

"So," Mustang began as casually as ever. "Why does Russell Tringham need to see you as soon as possible?"

Edward choked on the mouthful he was swallowing. "I appreciate your discretion," he sputtered, wiping his mouth.

"Don't be naïve," Mustang said. He turned to Havoc. "You knew that letter wasn't an invitation, right?"

"Right," Havoc chimed.

In unison, Havoc and Mustang swung their heads around to stare Edward down. "So, what's going on?" Mustang asked.

Edward glared at them both individually before turning back to his beer. "If it were any of your business, I'd tell you I don't know," he said.

"Really?" Mustang said, feigning surprise. "Then what would compel you to lie to Lieutenant Ross?"

"And Havoc," Havoc added, leaning forward to see past Mustang.

"He didn't lie to you. Well, he lied to you once. I'm implying the second lie, the one he told Ross," Mustang clarified, earning him a puzzled expression from Havoc. "You knew exactly what Russell and Fletcher Tringham were doing in that lab and why they were doing it," Mustang said smugly to Edward.

"And how do you know?" Edward asked accusingly.

Mustang smirked. "I know everything you do. I assumed that was understood."

"I don't know why I sit through this," Edward sighed.

"Like you have anything better to do," Havoc said, laughing.

"As a matter of fact—" Edward stopped suddenly and sat up very straight. "Shit, I forgot to call Winry," Edward put his flesh fist down hard on the bar. "She's gonna—" he cut himself short when he noticed the knowing looks both Mustang and Havoc were giving him, smiles crooked and eyebrows raised. "Shut up," Edward hissed.

Mustang put up his palms and turned back to the bar. "I said nothing."

Havoc snorted. "Sorry. Didn't realize I was thinking so loudly."

"You know," Edward began, artfully dodging his lapse. "I could ask you two the same thing. Don't you have a wife somewhere, Havoc?"

Havoc grinned and shrugged. "Somewhere. She's probably sleeping off an oxytocin and progesterone cocktail."

"A what?" Mustang asked, raising a brow.

"You know all the things that make women insane?" Havoc asked. "It gets _worse_ when they're pregnant." He sounded rather subjugated, making Mustang chuckle. "Avoid it at all costs." While Havoc often made a show of his suffering at the hands of his very pregnant wife, it was generally understood that fatherhood would suit the man well. He certainly would never announce it in a bar, but Havoc got almost as many kicks from the idea of parenthood as his wife got from the fetus.

"Like the plague," Mustang added before taking a long draw off his drink. As he swallowed, he noticed Edward looking into the amber depths of his stein, red-faced and frowning. Since Edward had not been drinking nearly enough to be that florid, the opportunity was too great to miss. "That isn't a concern for you, is it, Fullmetal?" Mustang asked, snatching Edward's attention away from his drink.

Edward took a moment to register what Mustang was insinuating, and he gave his best scowl while still being embarrassed speechless.

"Unless your call to Miss Rockbell _actually_ entails perhaps more than—"

"I don't know what you're implying, Mustang!" Edward yelped as soon as his voice returned. "Just 'cause I don't have to keep tabs on all my illegitimate children—"

Mustang put a hand to his chest. "You wound me; I've more poise than that." Havoc snickered loudly.

"He doesn't keep tabs on them. It's easier to just leave a stack of signed checks in the break room when child support is due," Havoc said, grinning. Edward laughed at that if only because it was a well-placed jab at his opponent; the subject of neglectful fathers was not one Edward found particularly humorous.

Mustang, ever the plucky participant, countered with, "Oh, _well-_played, Havoc. I was afraid my munificence would bother you since not only can you not afford to write checks of that nature, but you also are _confident_ you don't have to."

Havoc's eyes narrowed as he scrambled for a retort. "Hey, I only see one married person here! And it's me!" With that, Havoc snapped his face back to his beer and glared holes in the polished wood of the bar. He silently willed Mustang to keep to himself the fact that marriage was in no way indicative of virility.

Mustang's only response was a deep, quiet chuckle, which, because it was Mustang, was refutation enough.

Edward glanced at both of his companions before letting out a long sigh. "Well, on that note, I'm off to gouge my eyes out with spoons. It's been fun."

After making sure he could pass Mustang's Are-You-Good-to-Drive Test, Havoc got into his car and drove out of the municipal parking lot and into the lamp-lit street. Edward, having gotten to work earlier than both Mustang and Havoc, was parked closer to the building, and therefore further from the sidewalk. In silent agreement, Mustang walked with Edward, though they passed Mustang's car on the way. Through pools of yellowy light, spilled across the cracked and painted pavement, the two walked, hands thrust deep in pockets and breaths steaming.

Edward knew Mustang had been anticipating a time when they were alone since first receiving the letter that morning. Even with Russell's curt and rather vague style, Mustang must have interpreted correctly. He already knew the only connection Edward had with the Tringhams, and, more importantly, Mustang was not an idiot; no one in their right mind would waste his time on a casual letter to Edward.

"I can't blame you, you know," Mustang said, not surprising Edward in the least.

"For what?" Edward asked evasively.

Mustang snorted. "Don't insult me, Edward. The letter was sent to me on purpose; were I you, I'd be suspicious, too."

"I can worry about that later," Edward said, dropping the ruse with a sigh. "Somehow, I think whatever the letter was about is more important."

"Red water, you assume?" Mustang asked.

"Shh!" Edward hissed, glancing around nervously. "Make it a public service announcement, why don't you?"

Mustang stopped in the middle of a puddle of light and turned around in a lazy circle, observing the vacant expanse of parking lot blandly. He then came to a stop facing Edward with a sardonic expression on his face. "I think it's safe."

Edward glared for a moment and started walking again. He let a moment of silence pass before he answered grudgingly, "It has to be about the red water. He wouldn't waste a letter otherwise." Mustang chuckled deep in his throat. "I think something's wrong," Ed added darkly.

"Why is that? He was ambiguous, certainly, but didn't imply one way or the other."

"He knows I'm not looking for the Philosopher's Stone, anymore. Plus, I thought he'd given up researching it. He'd only contact me if something out of the ordinary were going on. I'm guessing the townspeople are getting sick again."

With a short hum, Mustang began to pull at the collar of his shirt. "Whatever you find, record it in code and don't tell anyone."

"Don't need to remind me," Edward replied. "But that's funny coming from _you._" Mustang quirked a brow in response. "You practically climbed on the bar and shouted to the hills that something was going on."

A gloved hand waved at Edward dismissively. "That bar was filled with politicians and hookers. If anyone heard, they'll probably assume you're sleeping with Tringham." Mustang shrugged.

Even in the poor light, Mustang could see the blood rush to Edward's face. "Oh, thanks," he snapped.

"Unflattering, perhaps, but entirely legal. If red water is involved, you would have to report it."

Edward raised a mischievous brow. "Are you suggesting insubordination, General?"

"It's not insubordination until you're caught, Fullmetal," Mustang said as they approached Edward's car. Mustang turned and leaned against the driver side back door as Edward hunted through his pockets for his keys. "I do hope you're not in too much trouble with Miss Rockbell," Mustang said, smirking as Edward blushed once more, even darker.

Edward, frustrated now with both his keys and his capillaries, let out a short, sharp sigh. "Thanks for the sympathy, _bastard_."

"I think it might do you well to—"

"I don't want to hear it," Ed snapped and opened his car door quickly to punctuate.

"I was only suggesting perhaps some feminine attention to balance things out. Completely innocuous," Mustang finished.

"You couldn't be innocuous if you tried," grumbled Edward as he slid into the driver's seat.

Mustang laughed and thumped the roof of Edward's car. "Give the family my best."

That made Edward pause. He had never heard Mustang refer to Alphonse as _the family._ It was only when Edward understood that the General was including Winry in the bunch that he laughed and realized it was true. "Right," Edward said. "Later."

"G'night," Mustang replied and stepped back from the car. Edward closed the door loudly and started the engine. By the time he was pulling on to the street, Mustang was already in his car and turning the ignition.

While stopped at an intersection, Edward checked his watch. It was already seven-thirty-two. He rolled his eyes, shifted into first gear, and resigned himself to a tongue lashing from Winry and that stupid, disapproving face Alphonse made whenever Ed did something irresponsible. Beyond that, however, he still looked forward to seeing them both. As comfortable as he had trained himself to be while in uniform, there was nothing like being with his family – Edward decided that he liked that, referring to Winry and Alphonse collectively as _the family_.

With every passing block, Edward felt his shoulders relax a little. He never noticed the tension during the day; it had become routine to pull out his game face for work. Even when with Havoc and Mustang off-duty, he did not feel entirely candid. There was always that sensation of performing and restraint, though it did lessen marginally when alone with the General.

Edward did not realize he was counting down the blocks until he heard himself say, "Two down." He then laughed shortly and shook his head.

The familiar face of Memorial Parkway stretched out before him as Edward took a left onto the street. The lamplights, more sparse now that Edward was out of the heart of Central, cast wide, orange circles over the road and sidewalk. Edward made a point to park in the middle of a fall of light then locked his doors methodically.

When he thought about it, Edward did not think Winry's neighborhood was particularly dangerous. Perhaps the only reason he was so cautious there was because it _was_ Winry's neighborhood, and the thought of her living all alone made him rather nervous. That never made much sense to him, so he did not think too hard on the subject often, but when he did, Edward had to remind himself that _just_ because she was alone did not mean her neighborhood was any more perilous than his.

Pulling his coat close around him, Edward jogged across the street and up to barren stairs leading to Winry's door, flanked by dim, curtained windows. He unconsciously looked up at the swinging sign before trying the doorknob; as he expected, it was unlocked.

Edward let himself inside and was immediately struck by how warm the place was. Locking the front door, he shrugged easily out of his coat and cut a path through the darkened waiting room. He took a left down a hall that lead to the little break room kitchen and the bathroom. At the back of the kitchen, Ed tossed his coat over the railing and started up the stairs that lead to Winry's flat.

The door at the top of the stairs was unlocked as well, and Edward entered as quietly as he could. The squeak of the door must have been announcement enough because, from beyond the little foyer, Edward heard, "Thanks for calling, Ed!" announced ironically. He rolled his eyes and closed and locked the door behind him.

Winry's flat was quite possibly the most pathetically funny thing Edward had ever seen, and he usually made a point of telling her that. It was one large, irregularly shaped space with no partition between "rooms." Winry typically designed one space something and another space something else with the furniture or the flooring. She insisted that the back of the couch separated the "dining room" from the "parlor," but Edward was quick to counter logically: if he could see over the wall, it was the same room. This usually led to many a raucously affectionate short joke.

Perhaps the best part of having a one room apartment was the ease of lighting and how the atmosphere could be ubiquitous or isolated depending on what was going on in what "room." On this evening, the single incandescent lamp hanging over the dining table failed to fill to the corners of the room, instead casting soft yellow circle that illuminated the table and little else. The savory, salty smell of grilled cheese sandwiches was thick in the air with the musky undersmell of steamed broccoli, and beneath that, the sweet, downy aroma inherently Winry lingered in the curtains and furniture.

Winry turned in her seat on the couch and knelt on the cushions. She folded her arms on the back and asked, "What took you?"

"Top secret military business," Edward said as he threw his uniform coat at her head. Winry snatched the coat out of the air and threw it down on the couch next to her, revealing her frown.

"You're so irresponsible, sometimes," she complained.

"Hey, maybe I was saving the city from some virulent, alchemic threat. You don't know," Edward countered, leaning down toward her.

"You were drinking with the General and Havoc," Al called from the "kitchen" where he was making sandwiches with practiced ease. Edward snapped his focus toward Al, whose back was to him.

"Whose side are you on?" Edward asked over Winry's laughter.

Alphonse glanced over his shoulder. "Maybe I'd be more supportive if you'd come help us out at the church. The foreman doesn't mind us using alchemy, too. You could be a huge help, Brother."

Ed rolled his eyes. "Some of us have jobs."

"Did I tell you Ed came to visit me today?" Winry asked. She hopped over the back of the couch and trotted up to Alphonse's side where a plate waited, heavy with sandwiches. She batted Alphonse gently with her elbow and nodded toward Edward. "He showed up just as I was getting ready to leave."

"Oh, really?" Alphonse asked, turning an accusatory look on his brother. "So you managed to get down there?"

"I was on a case," Edward said in his defense, but Winry spoke over him.

"Not that he helped at all."

"Who drove you home?" Edward snapped, pointing at her.

Winry chose to ignore him. She put her hands on her hips and asked frankly, "What have you got against Letoism, anyway?" Alphonse dropped the last sandwich on the plate and turned off the stove while Winry picked up the platter and headed toward the table. "So people wanna worship the sun. Big deal."

"Same thing I've got against all those stupid, sanctimonious, fabricated—"

"I think it helps that Brother knew the man who brought Letoism to popularity," Alphonse interjected. "What was his name? Cornello?" Al gathered up the casserole filled with hunter green florets and went to join Winry at the table.

"The bastard," Edward muttered, coming to stand behind his chair.

"Cornello the Bastard? That's quite a title for a religious leader," Winry said.

"I'll show you a book about it some time," Edward said as he pulled out his chair and sat heavily. "You'll think twice about helping them build a church."

"They're not trying to convert anyone, you know?" Al said, taking his seat as well. "Seriously, Brother, a few claps of your hands could get as much work done in five minutes as the rest of the crew gets done in a day."

"Then who would protect our lovely city from the deadly alchemic threats that rear their ugly heads everyday?" Edward asked, as he screwed off the cap of the beer Winry placed before him.

"And how many alchemic threats were you valiantly fighting back today?" Winry asked, passing Alphonse a sweating brown bottle as well. She then sat down and started struggling with the cap to her drink.

Edward reached across the table and took the bottle from her, twisting off the cap with ease. "_That_ is classified," he replied smugly before handing the bottle back. With narrowed eyes, Winry snatched back her drink.

Alphonse blew out an incredulous breath that ruffled his bangs. "Oh, right, Brother."

Edward found their teasing almost comforting enough to distract him from the weight of Russell Tringham's letter, which had cryptically instructed Ed to get in touch with Russell immediately, tucked cozily in his pocket. He was still trying to decide whether he should tell Alphonse about it. Even though, with Alphonse's migratory memories returning to roost more vividly everyday, Al might be able to offer some insight into the matter, Edward was not certain just how much of a true threat this very vague warning posed and thusly how much danger he would be exposing his little brother to by just informing him. Would Mustang's support and sagacity—a trait Edward begrudgingly recognized—be enough if the red water were flowing once more, Edward wondered. Had Winry not chosen that moment to clear her throat loudly, Ed could have continued pondering to exhaustion.

Both Alphonse and Winry waited with their drinks raised, prepared to carry out one more tradition borne between the three of them. As with most of their conventions, the source was not entirely clear, but the intent was. Edward smiled, pushing his more pressing concerns down, and raised his drink as well.

"You first," Winry said, gesturing to Edward.

"To…" Edward paused for a moment to consider. "Me, fighting back the alchemic evils that you are both blissfully ignorant of."

Alphonse rolled his eyes. "To _us_, encouraging diversity in the community."

Both brothers turned to Winry, waiting for her toast. She smiled at them and shook her head. "To you, drinking my beer and eating my food like the old days… well, minus the beer."

"Here, here!" Alphonse said as they clinked the glistening necks of their bottles together and tossed them back in unison.

Once their drinks were down, Winry began passing around the platters, each helping themselves to a serving. "Wow, grilled cheese," Edward said with feigned awe as he stacked golden-brown sandwiches high on his plate. "What's the occasion?"

Both Winry and Alphonse gave Edward identical glares, so identical, in fact, that Edward snorted while drinking, sending alcohol into his nose and making him curse colorfully.


	3. Cicatrices

**A/N: **Thanks, y'all.

**III. Cicatrices**

The house usually seemed so quiet in the mornings. Alphonse was casual and leisurely with his routine, always getting up with plenty of time to pointedly not tread on the squeaky floorboard in the stairs and close the fridge gently. Swift and silent was Edward's morning drill: he took the stairs three at a time and left the refrigerator door open. On the rare occasion, Edward managed to finagle himself out of bed with time to reacquaint himself with the rest of the country via periodical.

On this particular morning, Edward was acutely aware of the furnace rumbling in the cellar like a troll under a bridge. Alphonse whistled ridiculously loudly, slammed every door he touched, and somehow managed to make his sizzling eggs reminiscent of ground zero at the launch pad. Edward wondered angrily just what Alphonse's problem was and when they installed florescent lighting in the house.

"You know what, Al," Edward asked as he lumbered down the stairs, eyes squinting and feet dragging.

"What?" Al called back from the kitchen, making Edward flinch.

"When you get done with school, when you're a real MD—"

"AMD?" Alphonse corrected.

"Do your brother a favor and invent a way to alchemically process alcohol," Edward concluded. "Turn off the lights, would you?" he groaned before sinking limply into a chair.

"The lights aren't on, Brother," Alphonse said. "And I'm afraid helping you process alcohol would take the fun out of drinking. You can't have the stupor without the hangover."

"Nnugh, too many words…" Edward put his forehead down on the table.

"That's what you get for going out drinking before coming home and drinking," Alphonse informed Edward very matter-of-factly. He turned toward the table, having divided his serving of fried eggs on two plates, and brought his and Edward's breakfast to the table. "Are you going into work today, Brother?" Al asked as he sat down and began eating.

"Late," Edward said, "That is if I go in at all." He started to lift his head while speaking but, after catching a whiff of his breakfast, he lowered his unkempt, blond head once more.

"Take the day, I say. And eat your eggs." Alphonse gestured to Edward's portion with his fork.

"I'm trying to decide if it's worth it," Ed replied, raising his head with reluctance. He picked up his fork and looked as though he were seriously debating consuming his breakfast. "Not that I don't have sick leave hours to spare, but…"

"But what?" Alphonse asked through a mouthful of egg.

Edward watched his eggs for a moment before dragging his eyes up to his brother. "I'd never live it down," was all Edward could offer without going into detail about the brief but lingeringly embarrassing conversation he had had with Mustang the night before involving the potential benefits of Winry's attention.

With a snort, Alphonse pulled the newspaper toward his plate and began scanning the front page. "Fine, be secretive."

"I think I will, thanks." Edward braved a small bite of egg followed by a weak swallow, after which he realized just how hungry he was. He then helped himself to Alphonse's glass of water and made a large show of flinching and cringing when Al complained.

"I have no sympathy," Al said still scanning through the paper.

"You should," Ed said before taking another bite of his breakfast. "Winry was pushing you more drinks than she was me. How you got off painlessly is just luck."

"Or biology," Al said plainly. "Everyone knows the size of a person and the amount of alcohol he can handle are directly proportionate."

"I am in grievous pain here, and you're making short jokes?" Edward snapped and promptly regretted it. He let out a very long groan and held his head. "You're just mad that I'm on to you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Al asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Winry was trying to get _you_ drunk. It was obvious."

That sent Al into a very jolly if not exaggerated laugh that he let gradually fade out until he simply hummed in thought. He cast a shrewd look at his brother before going back to the newspaper.

"What was that for?" Ed asked, hating it when his little brother acted like he knew something Ed himself did not.

"I'll just say…" Alphonse paused to refold the newspaper, "Winry's never offered to help _me_ run for Senate." In the silence required for Edward to glare sincerely, Alphonse finished his eggs and stood up from the table. "What's more, Brother, unless she spends the balance of her time talking about _me_ to _you_ and I don't know about it, she might be tilting the scale in your favor." Al put his plate in the sink, once more taking advantage of Edward's silence, and headed toward the door. "Enjoy your day off, Brother. I'll see you this evening."

Edward managed to squeeze in a furious, "You don't know what you're talking about," before Alphonse waved over his shoulder and took off into the cold, blustery morning, leaving Edward with more things on his aching mind than he really wanted.

After nursing his symptoms until ten o'clock, Edward decided he could probably muster the energy to pretend to work. He also realized that, after hours of the wind, the furnace, passing cars, and his own thoughts, if he did not get some kind of distraction, his own head was going to eat him alive.

If it were not for the rather cyclical scrolling of Alphonse's off-hand commentary and the tissue-thin language in the letter from Russell Tringham, Edward might have been able to read himself into a time-devouring oblivion. Perhaps, if it were the notion of Winry's disproportionate attention only, Edward would have been all right. What was truly distracting was the lingering odor of guilt that seemed to rise like a cloud of mustard gas whenever he thought about it. Then he felt confused about why he felt guilty, and then he remembered that he had more important things to worry about, and then he wondered about what was truly going on in Xenotime, and then by that point, he had such a headache that he had to lie down. In the end, Edward felt like he had been banging his face against the brick wall that fell between his obligations and his hormones.

Having bathed, dressed, and attempted to drown himself in coffee at least once, Edward gathered himself together and got into his car.

The route from his house to downtown was so ingrained in him now that he probably could have driven with his eyes closed. So routine, in fact, that Edward did not realize that he had gone the completely wrong direction until his car began to jostle so violently his head swam. Edward promptly pulled over and parked, thinking he had a flat tire, but once out on the street, he saw that the problem was not the car. The problem was about forty percent his stupid autopilot and sixty percent the terrible condition of Fifth Avenue.

"Why in the hell would I drive myself here?" Ed mused out loud, looking from one shoddy building to the next. It would seem that the whole area had fallen to disrepair, not just the road. From a fire escape high above, a young woman with a swollen belly watched Edward and flicked ashes from her cigarette in his direction. Ed turned and looked up at her after he noticed the powdery ashes falling like snow. They met eyes for a moment, and Ed quickly looked away.

"Of all the places," he grumbled, turning back toward the car door. He opened it with a jerk and readied to fling himself inside and then drive himself—clearly still suffering from a hangover intrusive enough to be detrimental—home. He would fix himself something warm to drink after which he would climb into bed and will himself to sleep. And just the thought of that made the pounding in his head a little softer. Before he could sling himself in the driver's seat, though, a familiar voice sounded.

"Edward!"

Ed looked up, one foot in the car and one foot out. Across the street, Winry was painstakingly holding three cups of coffee while pushing open the door to a corner café with her back. She looked like she wanted to wave, but the laws of physics dictated otherwise.

"Didn't expect to—_hey, where do you think you're going?_" Winry yelled as Edward continued climbing into his car. She looked as though she wanted to run over to the car to stop him, but with three brimming paper cups in her hands, the best she could do was reach Edward fast enough to position herself in front of his car. "It's nice to see you, too!" Winry snapped as she set all three cups of coffee on the hood of the car. She glared at Edward through the windshield while Edward rolled his eyes. Seeing that he was, in fact, cornered, Edward sighed and climbed out of his car.

"Morning," he said, feigning weary detachment. In reality, as soon as Edward recognized her face, Alphonse's warning-like words came rushing back to the forefront of his thoughts. Edward hoped he was not blushing.

"What was that about, you jerk?"

"Like you don't know," Edward snapped back with as much venom as he could muster.

Winry grinned. "Oh," she said. "How's your head?"

"Fantastic. Yours?" he spat.

"A little light from paint fumes, but other than that, just peachy."

Edward wanted to swat that grin off.

"What brings you to this neck of the woods?" she asked.

Edward could only assume his semi-conscious sub-conscious had steered him out to what might prove to be the most Winry-ful location, but he would sooner tell that to the General than to Winry herself.

"Are you skipping work?" Winry asked, glancing at the passenger seat, occupied only by Edward's discarded uniform coat.

"I don't know why you're even asking," he muttered.

"You know, if you're not too busy, I could use a hand." She gestured to the cups, still steaming away on the hood. Edward furrowed his brow. "You don't have to stay and help or anything, but someone else paid for this coffee and I'd feel like an idiot if I spilled it," she said with the most sincerity yet.

Edward watched her for a moment, trying to decide if she were out to trick him into helping at the church and if she were, how well would he able to resist? He thought again about Alphonse's ever so insouciant caveat and knew it was in his best interest to tell her to carry her own coffee.

"Fine," Edward sighed. He then paused, realizing that what he had meant to say was _no._

"You're the best, Ed," Winry chirped, holding out one cup to him.

Posture slumped, Edward came around the car and took the cup from her. "You know, someday I'm going to cash in on all these favors," he warned. Together, they started toward the construction site of the church.

"One free tune-up, and we'll be even," she replied airily.

Ed turned up his nose. "My time and effort have no monetary value."

"Then what would you prefer?" she asked, turning a smile on Edward. For a moment, Ed thought he saw a frighteningly insinuative twinkle in her eye, and he just _knew_ he was blushing. Winry started laughing. "You're such an idiot, Ed," she concluded affectionately before picking up her pace.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he barked, hurrying to catch up.

When they reached the entrance to the sanctuary, Winry waited for Edward to open the door since he had a free hand. Knowing that just about everything she could do would make him uncomfortable, Winry smiled and thanked Edward when he held the door for her. Even in the dim light of the church, she could see him blush.

The foreman and his assistant were waiting in the first row of pews, talking in hushed voices. Edward and Winry made their way down one of three wide aisles cut through the concentric circles of pews. Around them, perhaps ten or eleven men worked, some on scaffolding at the stained glass windows, others on the floor. Edward noticed with a snort that Winry was the only woman among them.

"Mr. Oliver," Winry said as they came up behind the men. The one seated on the left looked over his shoulder, the fat around his neck wrinkling.

"Rockbell," he said, gesturing her forward. The second man, a dry and sinewy contrast to Oliver, looked at Winry and Edward as well. "What took you?"

Winry glanced at Edward. "I ran into a friend on the way back." She passed out two cups and took the third from Edward. "Here you go."

The thin man furrowed his brow at Winry. "Who's that for?" He indicated Winry's coffee with a nod of his head.

Winry looked down at her cup. "Oh, this?" She lifted it slightly. "I got this for myself." When Oliver and the other man exchanged a glance, Winry continued uneasily. "I didn't have my purse on me, but if you give me a second, I can pay you—"

"Ask next time, Rockbell," Oliver interrupted with a frown.

Out of her peripheral vision, Winry noticed one of Edward's eyebrows twitch.

"Who's this?" Oliver asked, looking at Ed.

"You remember Al from yesterday?" Winry asked. "This is his brother, Edward. I bumped into him on the street and—"

"Another Elric?" the thin man said, standing up and coming into the aisle. His tight-faced frown turned into a rather oily grin. He stuck out his leathery hand, which Edward accepted with poorly hidden reluctance. "How do you do? Reverend Umar Lawrence. I'm heading up this project." As he and Edward shook hands, Lawrence placed his other hand over Edward's.

In the poor light of the church, Edward could see the Reverend Lawrence's ivory teeth glistening between his thin, cracked lips. He looked to be in his forties and smelled faintly of sawdust and the need for a bath, all under the musky-sweet fragrance of cologne. His beige, linen suit was pressed and clean if not designed for someone meatier than he, and his pointed, leather boots, looking much newer than the church around them, shined as brightly as his slicked, black hair. Edward wondered how a man could maintain a suit of that nature and still need a shave as badly as Lawrence did.

"Hi," Edward said flatly before wresting his hand free.

"We could use another alchemist like your brother, Mr. Elric," Lawrence added, gesturing to the sanctuary around them.

"Actually, Edward was just—" Winry began.

"Excuse me," Lawrence interrupted, looking down the crooked bridge of his nose at Winry. "Now, Mr. Elric—"

"That's Major Elric, actually," Edward said coolly. "And I just came to lend Winry a hand, so don't mind me." He looked at Winry. "You want to get started?" he asked.

Winry blinked. "Sure," she said, quickly wiping away her surprise. "We'll just pick up where I left off." Winry gestured to a partially painted portion of the wall near the door. She then took Edward by the elbow and started guiding him in that direction.

Once they were a distance from Lawrence, Winry released Edward's elbow. "Was that you pretending to stand up for me?" she asked quietly, her voice incredulous.

Edward was clearly peeved and glared directly ahead. "Asshole," he grumbled.

Winry shrugged. "He's from New Lior. He's not used to our customs," she said dismissively.

"There's cultural gaps and then there's being an asshole, and that guy was being an asshole," Edward explained in a tone that brooked no argument.

"If you don't like him, don't talk to anyone else here," Winry said quietly.

"I've been to Lior, and no one was this rude," Ed commented. In his two visits, all the Liorese people had been very friendly if not, he recalled, radically retaliatory. But when unprovoked, Edward found the Liorese pleasant and eager to please.

"Well, Lawrence certainly seemed to like you. He took to Al pretty fast, too."

Ed glanced over his shoulder. "He makes me want to go home and bathe." Winry laughed into her hand. "Why the hell would you work for a guy like that anyway?" Ed asked as they approached the bare wall.

Winry shrugged and leaned forward to retrieve a drying paintbrush from the rim of a paint bucket. "Not one of these guys actually knows what he's doing." Winry put her hand to her chest and looked toward the ceiling. "With my superior skill, I'm morally obligated to help those less adept."

"Maybe if you're being paid by the hour," Edward grumbled, watching Winry slip the paintbrush into the back pocket of her worn denims. She produced a screwdriver from what appeared to Edward to be thin air and pried open the lid of the paint can.

"I was kind of hoping they'd put me on something more mechanical. You know, installing the furnace or something? I told Lawrence I was a mechanic but he still keeps giving me these sort of domestic jobs," Winry explained as she reached forward to dip her brush. She hesitated, bristles centimeters from the surface. "Oh, I guess you'd want a brush, huh?"

While watching Winry at work always held a shoebox-sized cubby in Edward's library of penchants—commonly called the _heart—_he had not told her yet, and he had no intention of starting. "Unless I'm here for emotional support," Ed suggested with a shrug.

Winry grinned. "I'll get you a pair of pom-poms then," she said, waving her hands like the kiddie-rugby team's cheerleaders they used to mock back in school.

"A paintbrush is fine, thanks," Ed replied, rolling his eyes.

"Hold this," Winry said, standing up and pushing her coffee into Edward's hand. "Have some, it might make your head feel better," she added with a wink. Winry then turned and hurried away, following the wall toward the base of a tall scaffold.

Edward looked down into the diluted depths of Winry's coffee. It looked weaker than he preferred, but he helped himself to one bittersweet swig anyway. While he doubted, after the two cups of coffee he had already consumed before leaving the house, another mouthful would make any difference, Edward felt the childish desire to drink all of Winry's coffee just to irritate her. So he helped himself so another mouthful.

The wall Winry and, apparently, he were undertaking looked rather daunting. No one else was on the floor painting, and about a fifth of the entire wall had been painted from floor to ceiling – that must have been Al's doing, Edward thought. He imagined he himself could probably get the entire place painted in half a day. In fact, he could probably have the whole building completed in two days, at most. But, on top of having reservations about aiding something as stupid as a church, Edward followed in his teacher's belief that if it could be done without alchemy, it should be. So when Winry returned with a paintbrush for him and stared blankly as he began coating the wall the old fashioned way, Edward ignored her resolutely.

"You're going to be here all day," Winry groused, watching as Edward painted carelessly.

"No, _you're_ going to be here all day," he corrected.

Winry put her knuckles into her hips, letting her loaded paintbrush dribble on her pants. "I thought you were going to help us out here."

Edward gestured with his free hand to his brush. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

"With _alchemy_, genius."

He smirked. "Didn't you say something about this being an opportunity to build character?" Edward asked. Winry scowled. "I'd hate to take that away from you."

"I'm not the one who needs it," she countered, leaning toward him.

"Right," he said, "And I'm not the one who agreed to stay until three o'clock this afternoon."

She glared even harder, and before Edward could dodge, he received a soft, paint-coated slap to the left cheek. He took a moment to gawk at Winry as she wiggled her whitewashed fingers at him and grinned.

"You're gonna get it, now," Edward growled. Winry shrieked and jumped away when Edward slung his brush at her, just catching the seat of her pants with the fan of spray. He then smacked his brush against the palm of his left hand with a sticky _splat_.

"You got paint on my butt!" Winry yelled, patting her round rump in a way that would have made Edward swallow hard were he not distracted with attacking her.

"I'm gonna do worse than that!" he barked, lunging at her with his left palm forward. She yelped and darted to the side, narrowly missing a handprint to the face. Winry dashed around Edward, just barely out of range as he swung around and chased after her, palm-first.

Neither of them heard the Reverend Lawrence yelling from the pews as they escaped and chased respectively.

"Get back here!" Edward demanded as Winry paused at the door, pushing with all her might.

"No!" she cried and slipped out the door, inches from a slap to the back. She skipped out onto the sidewalk and turned around to taunt Edward, who was wrestling one-handedly with the door. "You think you can catch me, squirt?" she taunted.

"You're dead meat!"

Winry stuck out her tongue, pivoted on heel, and started into a sprint down the street. Before she could take two steps, however, she collided at full speed with one of two carriers of a heavy crate. Luckily, the man she hit looked about as heavy as the crate he lifted, and while Winry bounced off and fell flat on her now marbled behind, the man swayed a bit and glared down at her.

"Watch it," he grumbled before he continued backing toward the church, crate in tow.

Winry winced and rubbed her tailbone. "Sorry," she muttered. With a quiet _ow,_ she stood up and turned back toward the church to tell Edward the game was off. Before she could open her mouth to tell him, however, a wet palm landed with a splatter against her face. She felt five fingers being dragged from her forehead, down her face, before sliding off her chin.

When she managed to pry her eyes open through the sticky paint that adhered her eyelashes to her cheeks, Winry saw Edward, grinning smugly at her.

"Ha," he said triumphantly. "Loser."

Of all Edward's anticipated results of their little paint-melee, this was not one of them. The long, cologne-scented harangue, Edward had foreseen. The dismissal from the construction site came as no surprise to him either. What he had not predicted—and what probably would have deterred him from getting paint all over Winry if he had foreseen the result—was being forced to chauffeur Winry home. Now, in the diffused, grey afternoon sunlight that seeped into Winry's flat, Edward began to feel sort of bad for whitewashing her.

Winry had, for as long as Edward could remember, smelled. Though he could never quite define it, the Rockbell house smelled different from his home growing up. He could recall conversations with Alphonse in their youth about that very topic. It was not a bad smell, they had decided. It was different. It was a little sweet and very clean, rather like the imported soaps their mother treated herself to occasionally. Beyond the lingering of tobacco smoke and machine grease, there were daylilies in a vase on the kitchen table and orange pomanders in the hall closet. Mrs. Rockbell cooked with ginger and garlic, and Mr. Rockbell was fond of his aftershave.

After a while, Edward had come to expect these smells from Winry. In fact, he soon grew to identify, in his sensory memory, those certain aromas as inherently _girl. _He had found, however, upon helping her move into her own apartment, far from her childhood olfactory amalgam, that Winry had a smell all her own.

Around the age of fifteen, Edward discovered that most women smelled. Not that they had distinct flavors reminiscent of anything tangible, but they had an aroma that men simply did not have. While he first entertained the thought that there was something wrong with him—perhaps his sense of smell was augmented or even mutated due to exposure to some chemical or transmutation—Edward later came to understand that it was simply and humiliatingly puberty. Since that discovery, one that would forever remain clandestine—Edward? Hormones? Never!—Edward had denied himself scratching the itch that was figuring out just what Winry smelled like.

He propped his socked feet on her coffee table and held to his forehead the ice-pack that Winry had pilfered from the freezer in the clinic break room. A good-sized welt—courtesy of handle of screwdriver Edward had forgotten Winry had in her pocket—had begun to bloom on his brow when they reached Sullivan and Rockbell's. With what she thought was a considerable display of magnanimity, Winry pulled Edward into the break room, slapped the pack against his blossoming bruise, and dragged him up the stairs. She proceeded to sling him into her couch and command him to wait for her to finish her shower.

Why Edward was still sitting there, nursing his head and enjoying Winry's coffee table, he was not sure. Perhaps it was the smell.

She was making all kinds of noise from the bathroom. She half sang, half hummed a popular tune from the radio while splashing and clattering around the shower. Edward watched the steam trickle out from beneath the door and waited.

He heaved a sigh and checked his watch. He had been listening to Winry warble for half an hour now.

Typically, Edward avoided lingering in Winry's apartment alone. Not only did it take an exercise of will to not lay back and breath deep but she also never had anything worth reading on her shelves. Plus, he knew where she hid her diary, and that was just too damn tempting. Perhaps what irritated Edward the most about hanging around Winry was that embarrassing fourteen-again feeling she always seemed to dredge up in him. Abstractly, Edward recognized the _scritchety-scratch _of the childhood that he never had, and most of the time, he could leave it knocking plaintively at the threshold.

But he would eat his automail before he would say that the look on Winry's whitewashed face was not _entirely_ worth the bump on his head.

It had been more than a decade since their your-mom-dresses-you-funny-days, even longer since either of them had a mother to dress them. Was it not about time to put that sort of thing to rest? Edward thought it was. But thinking and doing were very different beasts.

The sound of the shower cut off abruptly, and Winry's humming continued, clearer now. Edward heard the rings on the curtain clinking together and the swish of Winry's towel pulled from the bar.

Edward resolved to think things other than Winry crooning hollowly in the bathroom. In a towel.

The letter from Russell Tringham, safely stowed in the top drawer of the desk in his study, seemed an appropriate distraction, so down that shady avenue he went. Edward had yet to dedicate as much time as he would have liked to the dilemma, anyway. Russell was probably expecting an expedited reply, as well. At the moment, however, Edward was still deliberating Alphonse's involvement. His better judgment told him to leave Al out of it; the poor kid was already attending med school full-time, and if that were not challenging enough for him, he was at least four years younger than everyone else in his class. Edward knew quite well what it was like to have one's height on the social food chain disproportionate to one's actual height. And it was _not fun. _

However, if Edward knew his brother, Alphonse would not sit quietly and let Edward dive into this investigation alone. Despite their agreement that Al and a military certification would remain mutually exclusive, Alphonse was not above weaseling his way into Edward's business. This, Edward had seen firsthand.

The question that began pestering him now was just how much of their time in Xenotime did Alphonse remember? It had been almost a decade since they had overthrown that particular plan for alchemic world domination, but Alphonse had only began recalling things in the last two years. Of all the waking flashbacks through which Edward had held Al's hand, Ed could not recall if they had relived Xenotime yet. That perhaps, was the main factor on which Alphonse's participation was contingent.

What Edward sensed—he did not know for certain, but his gut had yet to lead him astray—was that this was bigger than the chump change cases the Double –A had been tackling lately. And he could probably use all the help he could get.

"I think," Winry said from within the bathroom. She threw open the door, allowing a curling cloud of steam to pour into the main room. Her smiling face appeared in the doorway and quickly shifted to a glare. "That you should get your dirty feet off my coffee table!" She pointed her free hand—the other was charged with holding her towel up—at his lounging offenders.

Edward snickered and took his time removing his feet.

Winry cleared her throat. "I think you should take me out to lunch."

Edward frowned from under his liquefying icepack. "What for?"

She smiled and put her index finger to chin. "I could go for Xingian. Or maybe a pizza!" Her stringy blonde head disappeared into the bathroom, and she watched Edward in the foggy mirror.

"That's not what I meant," Edward sighed, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.

"I know," Winry replied, grinning at him. She fished a paddle brush from a drawer and began brushing out her waist-length hair. "You really embarrassed me today, you know? I've been trying to make a good impression on Mr. Lawrence this whole time, and I pretty much blew it."

"You painted me first," Edward said accusingly and wiped a trickle of condensation off his cheek.

"Well, you didn't have to paint me back."

"It wouldn't have been so conspicuous if you hadn't started running around _squealing._" He put up his free hand and showed her his seated impression of her, running and squealing.

"If you hadn't chased me—"

"If you hadn't painted me first—"

Winry let out an exaggerated sigh and slammed her brush down hard. She grabbed the doorframe and swung herself out. "I'm just asking you to take me to lunch, Ed. Would it freaking kill you?"

Perhaps it was the combination of Winry essentially asking for his afternoon and her rosy, drippy, insouciant dishabille. Perhaps it was the way the back of her towel hung to low that Ed could see the dimples above her tailbone in the bathroom mirror. Whatever the case, Edward felt his face heat up despite the icepack. Instantly, he brought up frustration to cover. "Am I the only person here who works? I don't have afternoons to just sling around however I want."

"But apparently you have mornings," Winry countered. She sighed again, less exasperated and more resigned. "This is the last whole day Sully's giving me of, and I wanted to do something with it." She turned and padded over to the designated bedroom area. One handedly, she opened the top drawer in her dresser and pulled out a blue t-shirt. She threw it across her bare shoulder and soon added a pair of well-loved denims.

Feeling a little less tense with Winry's focus elsewhere, Edward slumped back on the couch. "What do you mean, Sully's giving you off? Didn't you just make partner?" When a second and third drop of water slid into his eye, Edward tossed the pack on the coffee table.

Winry shrugged. "Well, yeah, but he said he didn't want me gone for too many days." With her underwear in her hand, she spun to face Edward. "And put that in the sink before you mess up my coffee table even more!" She pointed at the pack with her powder-blue panties wadded in her fist.

Edward did not know if the panties were there for emphasis, but for whatever reason, he obeyed faster than he usually did. When he came back to the couch, Winry was gathering her clothes together and heading toward the still-foggy bathroom.

"It's already one," Winry said as she set her belongings down on the counter and turned toward the door. She swung it almost closed, leaving just enough space so she could hear Edward clearly. "What's the point of going into work now?"

Leaving right then for work sounded like a great idea to Ed as he struggled to keep his eyes on other places around the room than the bar of yellow light that peeked past the bathroom door.

It was not working. He was watching the strip of bathroom cabinet, counter and mirror like someone watches two cars speeding head-on toward each other. Winry was careful, though, and not one toe slipped into his view.

Edward vacillated between frustration and appreciation before willing his eyes elsewhere. _Edward? Hormones? Never!_

"I should stop in," Edward improvised, counting the bricks on the next building through the window over Winry's bed. "Just to see if I have any messages." _Messages?_ He thought. When the hell did anyone ever leave him messages? He supposed, though, to Winry, it might sound viable.

"What if I came with you?" Winry asked beyond the door.

_Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen…_ "I'd get my ass handed to me by security, that's what."

She was quiet for a moment with what Edward thought was disappointment.

Out of the corner of his eye, Edward saw something wink. When he looked over, he could see that something had interrupted the light that poured from the bathroom. Leaning just far enough over the counter, Winry's hands appeared, squeezing a bottle of lotion into her palm.

Edward had the inkling that he was being manipulated.

She rubbed her hands together and then they disappeared from view. Now, she revealed the mirror, into which her reflection appeared.

"I guess if you want to be that way, then fine. I'm sure I've got things around here I need to do."

In the four inches of space between the jamb and the door, Edward could make out Winry putting one bare foot on the counter and rubbing her lotion into her skin, starting at her ankle and working up.

He watched her out of the side of his eye, reluctant and embarrassed and terribly curious, until he caught a glimpse of the blue underwear that had commanded him a moment ago to mind the furniture. Edward stood up suddenly and hurried toward the kitchen.

Burying his face in a cabinet, Edward blurted to the stacks of Winry's drinking glasses, "Where do you keep the aspirin?" That was a stupid question. He knew exactly where she kept her aspirin, and it was not somewhere he could get to at the moment.

"What was that?" Winry asked.

Edward took out a glass and filled it from the faucet. "You got any aspirin? My head is killing me."

"Oh," she replied. "It's in here. Give me just a second."

Edward lingered in the kitchen, reading and rereading the grocery list pinned to the icebox under a square of magnet.

Winry eventually opened the bathroom door wide and leaned out. She caught Ed's attention and gestured for him to approach. To Ed's relief, she was fully clothed. "That's right," Winry teased. "You're still hung over, aren't you?" She grinned when Edward appeared in the doorway, glaring and holding open his right hand expectantly.

"I've also a concussion, or did you forget?"

"Don't be so dramatic," Winry said as she opened the medicine cabinet behind the mirror. She plucked a red and white bottle from the shelf, popped off the top, and began shaking out pills into her hand. "I didn't hit you nearly that hard."

Winry dumped two white pills into Edward's palm then grabbed his sleeve and pulled him into the bathroom as he was swallowing. "And look. It's not even bruising." She gripped his shoulder and pointed at his reflection, which was glaring back at her.

Ed took a gulp of water from a glass by the sink. "Gee thanks, Doc," he drawled. "You've always been good at removing the evidence." He watched her damp, flushed face in the mirror. She was grinning at him, making her nose wrinkle. He rolled his eyes. "I guess," he sighed. "I could handle a pizza."

"Ha," Winry said, clapping his shoulder. "I knew you'd cave."

Ed glowered.

"I can just wait outside the command center until you're done, but don't be all day, okay?"

"Fine, as long as you don't go crawling into the back of a serial killer's car this time," Edward teased then backpedaled when the color in Winry's face drained down below the neckline of her shirt. "Oh," Edward said and winced apologetically. "Too soon?"

Winry took a moment to reorient herself before looking down and waving dismissively at Ed. "No, it's just…" she hesitated and smiled like she was laughing at herself. "It's fine," she concluded as though it really were.

Winry was particularly chatty on the drive, Edward thought. She fiddled with her damp hair and gesticulated broadly, her hands like little, white birds flitting around the cabin of the car, trying to get out.

She was clearly nervous, and if there were a handful of things in Ed's life that _really_ made him feel like shit, that was one of them. If it were not for the fact that her anxiety had been entirely preventable—if she had just listened to him _for once_ and kept her distance like he told her to—Edward might have been better able to tease her into ease. That Winry was uncomfortable, even frightened by the thought of waiting for him on the steps of Central HQ set in motion the high tide of guilt that he usually kept pushed out beyond the breakers.

Edward sometimes wished he did not know Winry quite so well. Perhaps it would be easier to be her friend if he were not this sort of assimilated entity of her past, a limb of her childhood that was as stuck to her as his automail was to him. That was the problem with childhood friends. Ed thought he knew every scar she had on her. But really, the only cicatrices that bothered him were the ones he had helped put there, although she would deny their existence to anyone who asked.

He knew why she was afraid of thunderstorms, and while it once had something to do with thunder, she could now conjure a set of her own manmade, ten-year-old terrors. He knew why mention of Central's most eligible Brigadier General did not send her into giggles and blushes as it did other women. And he knew why waiting on the windswept steps of Central Headquarters made the hairs on her forearms stand on end. He could see them out of the side of his eye when she made a particularly broad gesture.

"I'm okay, you know," she said, snatching Edward's attention from the space in his head where his thoughts ricocheted off the walls.

"Okay," he said succinctly, knowing that she was probably fibbing.

"Mind if I hang on to your jacket?" she asked, holding up the sleeve of the uniform coat she had folded and set in her lap. Edward glanced at his coat, then at her eyes. He must have betrayed what he was thinking because Winry quickly added, "Since it's going to get cold just sitting there waiting for you."

"Go for it," he replied, looking back at the road. And, as they pulled into the municipal lot where Edward left his car every morning, they both felt a little more comfortable when Winry donned Ed's coat. Ed felt even better when he saw that it was too big. The square angles of the shoulders drooped off her, and only her fingertips peeked past the cuffs. And that alone excused the notion of strolling into the office, his automail showing through the thin white sleeves of his shirt.

Once Edward was in his office, watching Havoc watch Winry in Ed's coat from Mustang's abandoned window, he felt less at ease. Havoc turned away from the window when Ed came in, and immediately, Havoc grinned as widely as a person could while still sucking a cigarette.

Ed scowled. "What're you looking at?"

Havoc chuckled and looked back out the window behind Mustang's empty desk. "Nothing." When Edward did not immediately reply, Havoc looked over his shoulder. "I musta missed the memo."

"What memo?" Ed asked.

"The one saying it was Bring Your Girlfriend to Work Day."

"Stuff it, Havoc," snarled Ed as he turned to his desk and his unoccupied inbox.

"Or the one after it saying it was actually Make Your Girlfriend Wait Outside Work Day."

"All right, all right," Ross chided from her desk where she was glancing back and forth between a map and a case file. Edward looked over at Ross and began to turn away but paused and looked back. Lieutenant Ross was bent over a map of Central, marked with two, small red X's along the north bank of the river.

"What's new?" Edward asked, leaning across their conjoined desks to read the opened file.

"Double homicide," Ross said in a tone too schooled to be tranquil. She leafed through the file to another page. "Both women."

Edward said a quiet _eew_ in his throat and thought of Winry alone below. He involuntarily looked toward the window where Havoc was waiting to catch him. Edward glared briefly before looking back at Ross.

"Is that our jurisdiction?" he asked.

Ross stuck the end of her pen between her incisors. "Not yet, but it has potential."

He almost asked her why before remembering that he came in to work that day for a reason, albeit a fake reason, but a reason nevertheless. "Any messages for me?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

Both Ross and Havoc looked at him at the same time. "Messages?" Ross asked.

Havoc added, "Were you expecting any?"

Ed covered, "Did Mustang bring in anymore of my mail he'd read?"

"Not that he mentioned," Ross said succinctly and went back to her file.

As though on cue, a collection of footfalls sounded from the hall. Havoc quickly darted out from around Mustang's desk, stubbed out his cigarette, and slid into his own chair just in time to give the appearance of jumping to attention when General Mustang entered with a second, uniformed man. Typically, Edward could not be bothered with saluting, but with the presence of a guest—a General if the stars were correct—Edward mustered his obeisance.

"At ease," Mustang said in a voice he only used in the presence of non-members of the Double-A. "Major General Berman, this is First Lieutenant Havoc, Major Elric, and First Lieutenant Ross."

Berman seemed to fill a room less than the average man despite his size. He appeared close to Havoc in height, but his shoulders were narrower and sharply square. With dark, reflective eyes he scanned and summarized everyone in the room, though no part of his tanned, lined face betrayed the conclusions to which he came. He nodded his head in response to an even "How do you do, sir?" from Ross, and a shiny lock of mahogany and gray hair fell across his high forehead. With a slender hand he had kept behind his back, Berman pushed his bangs from his face. The gesture seemed to bring attention to an otherwise inconspicuous scar across his right temple. Edward had to make a point not to stare.

"Major General Berman has recently transferred here from Eastern. He's in Homicide Investigations," Mustang informed them.

"What brings you to our neck of the woods, sir?" Havoc asked ironically.

Berman got the joke and smiled. "The woods, hm? The ladder in Eastern was getting short," was all he offered, and Edward wondered if that would make Mustang like the man more or less. "I'm curious about your operations here," Berman said. Edward glanced at Mustang, wondering if he were the only one sensing evasive maneuvers.

"Perhaps I could elucidate," Mustang replied. "We are, as you've seen, a branch of the Investigations Bureau." Right around this point, Edward lost interest. Mustang made it clear by turning his back to everyone but Berman that he expected his troops to make themselves look busy, so they did. Edward was about to sit down to fiddle with his desk before excusing himself to do some important military business that required his leaving for the rest of the day, but Havoc caught his attention.

"By the way, Ed, you got a call earlier," Havoc said as he sat down with a rigidity he only pulled out when he wanted to look more professional than he was.

"What?" Ed almost barked. "You mean I actually have a message?"

Havoc was distracted with surreptitiously watching Mustang schmooze. After a moment, Havoc judged it was safe to light his second cigarette without reprimand. He did so with relish. "Hmm," Havoc replied, nodding and inhaling. He plucked his cigarette from his lips and spoke smoke. "I s'pose you do. Slipped my mind until now."

"Well?" Edward asked.

Havoc scratched his brow with his thumb. "A Dr. Rosenblatt called about an hour ago."

"Rosenblatt?" Ed knew he recognized the name from somewhere.

"Yeah, said he was calling from Ellyson University. He didn't say how he got this number or why he was calling."

Havoc continued reciting the message, but Edward was not listening. Like a physical impact, he immediately remembered who Dr. Rosenblatt from Ellyson University was, how he reached a military phone, and why he would be calling Ed in the middle of the day. Edward did not pause to excuse himself as he brushed past Mustang and Berman.

Winry started when she saw Edward burst through the exit and begin jogging down the steps. "What's wrong?" she asked as she jumped up from her seat and followed him.

"It's Al," he said succinctly and took off toward the car. Winry followed, Edward's coat held close and her heart thudding in her throat.

"What are you talking about?" Winry demanded when Ed did not immediately elaborate.

Ed answered without looking at her. "We've got to go get him. Al has these… episodes." They pushed unforgivingly through a small crowd of people waiting for the trolley before taking a left turn down a narrow lane flanked on the right by a tall, brick wall and the left by a chain link fence surrounding a vacant lot. Distantly, Winry noted that this had to be a shortcut; they had not come that way.

"Quit being so damn cryptic, Edward. What are you talking about?" she snapped and seized Edward's arm. Ed spun around and looked at her for a fraction of a moment. He then glanced back toward the command center, now visible through the criss-crossed mesh of the fence. Already, Edward could feel, percolating through his stifling concern for his little brother, the dense weight of his guilt.

"I'll tell you in the car," he replied before turning and continuing down the alley.

The lane spilled them onto the side-walked perimeter of the lot where Edward had parked his car less than half an hour earlier.

Once they were behind the solidly closed doors of Edward's car, Winry crossed her arms over her chest and gave Edward a face that let him know that she would not be satisfied until she had every detail.

Ed began as he put the car in reverse and gripped the back of Winry's headrest for leverage. "Al's been getting his memories back," Ed said as he haphazardly swung the car backwards out of the space.

"I know that," Winry said. "He told me."

"Did he tell you how?" Ed asked, putting the car into gear.

Winry hesitated. "No. They don't just come to him?"

Ed snorted. "No, they don't just come to him."

Winry sensed the bitterness in Edward's tone but did not reprimand him; before he could even begin to go into detail, she could tell how describing the process out loud was affecting him. "So how does it work?"

"He has these flashbacks, but it's like he's in it again. It's like a dream he can't wake up from until it's all over."

"You mean he's…"

"Yeah. Anything from the transmutation to when got his body back. All six years."

Winry hesitated as the implications settled.

"Oh, Al," she breathed.


	4. The Responsibility

**A/N: **Hey, y'all. So writing this story, many collegiate winter breaks in the making, has been pretty much exclusively self-motivated. I've shown it to less than a handful of people before posting it here, and I'm still sort of operating under the assumption that, well, hey, if I enjoy writing it, then y'all must enjoy reading it. And while that assumption pretty much got me through my degree, it is still awful nice to get reviewed. So yeah. Thanks to those of y'all who have shared your opinions. I appreciate it. And to those of you who have yet to share your opinions, I'm gonna hound you like Steve Inskeep during NPR's Seasonal Fundraising and Guilt-Tripping Extravaganza! Okay, not really; however, reviews feel an awful lot like love. Keep that in mind. But back to the important stuff. Like Alphonse... 

**IV. The Responsibility **

Ellyson University was a collection of very old and very new buildings in the heart of Central. Ironically, the older buildings were towering blocks of flat, gray concrete while the new structures were the same ancient Xerxian architecture as many of the pretentious, official buildings in Central: tall, ivory porticos, ribbed cupolas, and bas relief insets in just about ever flat surface. This particular building, Douglass Hall, had depictions of various austere, angular-featured scientists acting out the stereotypes of their fields: peering painstakingly through telescopes; toiling over mortars and pestles; scrutinizing beakers; clutching injured, mostly-naked men while applying compresses to battle wounds. The first time Edward saw Douglass Hall, he had wondered where all the poverty stricken, half-crazed men were, where the men grasping bloody stumps and wailing were. Edward always imagined science being riddled more with hunger, insanity, and traumatic amputation than with success. Then again, it would make sense that only the success stories would make it onto a university wall.

On this particular stop at Douglass Hall, Edward pulled up the parking break in the fire lane in front of the building and left the car without locking it. Winry followed Edward as he took the marble steps toward the entrance two at a time.

They barreled into the polished atrium, startling the wandering professors and students. Gray light poured through the windowed panels of the dome ceiling, making the air between the buffed, marble walls seem old and dusty. Winry almost collided with Edward's back when he skidded to a halt in front of her. She managed to stop at Edward's right, grasping his arm to keep her feet from sliding out from under her.

"What are you looking for?" Winry asked, feeling the eyes of the Ellyson faculty on her.

"It's been a while since I've had to come here," Edward muttered, looking at the steel plaques over the classroom doors that lined the hall. He must have found what he was looking for because he took off once more down the corridor, Winry trailing behind.

They took a right turn into a smaller hall and stopped at a beige-colored door with a narrow, rectangular window cut in it. The plaque over the door read, "Morrison Lecture Hall." Edward reached for the handle. "Just to warn you," Edward said to her as he opened the door to Morrison lecture hall. Winry stopped in the doorway and looked at him. "Sometimes Al gets a little beat up."

"Beat up?" she asked, remaining paused long enough for Edward to push past her and onto the landing at the top of a long flight of stairs that cut through the middle of a crescent of arena seating.

More thick, gray sun streamed dully through a row of windows close to the ceiling, illuminating the capacious room with a cold, underwater sort of light. The occasional beam of undiluted light would phase in and then out, making, for a moment, the drifting motes in the air wink.

Dr. Rosenblatt, a pale, aging man of small stature, stood from his seat at the desk before the risers. He leaned forward and said something to Al, who was slouching in a seat in the first row. Al shifted his eyes from his pale-knuckled hands, clasped severely on the desk before him, to the source of those fast, loud footfalls, pounding down the stairs.

"Edward," Rosenblatt said as a chilly salutation. Ed barely paused to nod to the professor before he sidestepped his way through the seats and sat down to Alphonse's left. Winry, from where she remained at the door to the lecture hall, watched Edward exchange quiet words with his little brother before leisurely draping an arm across Alphonse's narrower shoulders. Alphonse, in turn, slumped against his brother.

Quietly, Winry walked to her right toward another flight of stairs leading to the lecture floor. She took the steps slowly, apprehensive of what Edward meant when he said, "beat up." The thinly carpeted stairs seemed to continue on for an eternity, never bringing her closer to her boys.

When Winry finally made her silent way to the seat to Alphonse's right, she heard Edward mutter something to Al, who lifted his head from Ed's shoulder and looked up at Winry with swollen hazel eyes. His face was pale and blotchy, still damp from caustic tears. His bangs stood out at odd angles, betraying that Al had been giving into his nervous gesture of tugging at his hair. There were three large drops of blood on his shirtfront, though Winry could not see from where. Through the sandy locks that hung in his eyes, Al gave her an apologetic expression. Sorry, he was saying, for making her see this.

In a quick cover to hide tears, Winry breathed a gentle sigh through her nose. She lowered herself into the seat, pulled her feet up with her, and drew Al away from his brother. Al moved slowly, heavily, and sagged against Winry, leaning his temple against her shoulder. She curled her arm around the back of his unkempt head and began tracing her fingers through his hair.

"Rough day, huh?" she said quietly, pulling his bangs away from his pale forehead.

"It started out okay," Al replied. He watched her knees for a long, hushed moment. "I bit myself," he added, showing Winry two curved lacerations in the pad of his palm, just below his thumb. They were ragged-edged cuts, and Winry imagined Al grinding his teeth into his own skin.

"Why'd you do that?" she asked, taking his wrist in her hand and holding it close to her chest despite the blood that dribbled onto Edward's uniform coat.

"I thought," Al began. Winry stroked his bangs away from his clammy forehead. "I forget that I can feel things sometimes."

"I understand." Winry could not even imagine.

Edward watched, his feet propped on the desk and elbow still resting on the back of Al's chair, as Winry worked her maternal magic. Al was almost instantly eased, and Edward thought, with some degree of envy, that this ease was probably caused by Winry's ataractic affection. She was so quick to use touch, like she knew Al's deepest fear was the numbness that came with the memories. Edward glanced at his right arm, the one he had put around his brother. He flexed his hand and listened to the sound of the gears turning.

Edward wanted to stand up right then. He wanted to find a phone and call Russell Tringham. He wanted to tell Russell to handle the red water alone, to solve his own problems, to keep his goddamn alchemy to himself. Then Ed would throw down his pocket watch, burn his uniform, and wash the only hand he had left of the god-forsaken practice that once made him think he could get away with the impossible.

Then, after all that, he would pick the alchemy back up and continue turning over stones in search of the one, elusive circle that would make everything right again.

He gritted his teeth and allowed himself a moment to hate everything like in the old days.

The sensation of being watched made Edward even angrier. He opened his eyes and saw Winry looking at him with a blank face. She did not look sorry or empathetic or worried. She just watched him. And that let Edward know that she knew exactly what he was thinking.

Brusquely, Edward stood up, unable to take the weight of Winry's discerning eyes. Feeling too self-conscious to walk, Edward vaulted over the desk and marched up to Rosenblatt who was patiently reading assignments at the speaker's desk below the chalky blackboard.

"Where'd it happen?" Edward asked, leaning his hip against the desk and folding his arms.

"In the hall," Rosenblatt replied without looking up.

"A lot of people saw it, then?"

Rosenblatt plucked off his wire-frame glasses and rubbed his pale eyes. "There are enough neurology students here who will write it off as epilepsy. I think it's safe to assume that they will draw that conclusion before they come to the real one."

Edward glanced at Al, who was now exchanging very hushed words with Winry and still basking in the physical affection Edward had been unable to give.

"Thanks for keeping an eye on him, professor," Edward said. "I don't know when this is going to be over, but, until it is, Al'll need as many good minds in his corner as he can get."

The craquelure around Rosenblatt's eyes deepened. "I'm not an alchemist, Edward," he said firmly. "But I am a psychiatrist."

A great deal of meaning weighed down the cradles between Rosenblatt's words. Ed stared at the doctor for a moment so long and cold that it could have solidified between them. Edward stood up straight and turned his back to the seating. "Al's _not_ crazy," he hissed so they would not be overheard.

"Edward—"

"This is going to pass, and he's going to _own_ this school." Ed put a metal forefinger down hard on the desk.

"And until that day, are you going to baby-sit him?" Rosenblatt asked, patient and stern. "I admit he's been through a great deal, most of which I simply cannot understand. But these stages of recovery look an awful lot like symptoms." Edward narrowed his eyes. "I'm suggesting something that might take some burden off you as well."

Edward unclenched his jaw to say, "There is no burden."

Rosenblatt did not attempt to argue.

Edward turned and walked as evenly as he could back toward where Al and Winry were now chatting a little more easily in the risers. Edward stopped in front of them and put his hands casually down on the desk. Winry and Al looked up to see him smiling. "You wanna get out of here?" he asked.

Winry glanced at Alphonse for his answer. "Sure," he said. Ed reached across the table and picked up Alphonse's satchel. Winry held Al's coat open for him, and together, the three of them started up the steps toward the exit.

By the time they reached the park, complete with a picnic lunch they had picked up from Al's favorite bakery, the sun had burned away some of the overcast. The patches of sky that showed around the downy clouds looked impossibly high and vibrant, and the sun that shown through those openings spilled onto the vacant rugby field in large, irregular splashes of yellow. The air was still sharp, but the wind had died to the occasional gust, which did wonders for keeping the cold out of Edward's coat—the one that Winry still wore.

Edward parked his car at the top of a hill overlooking the field and the adjacent playground, and Winry immediately took to setting up their lunch. Some hunting around in the trunk produced an earth-colored quilt, which Winry spread out on one of the more level stretches a little ways down the hill.

Before Winry began arranging the blanket, Edward had started to get out of the car. He stopped, however, when he glanced into the rearview mirror and saw Al, gazing at his knees. Ed looked away. He sat still for a moment, watching the row of empty parking stalls out to the left of the car. He could not take the silence for very long before Ed opened his door and climbed out. Resolutely, he came around to the other side of the car. When Al did not look up at him through the window, Ed opened the car door.

"You coming or what?" Edward asked.

Al unclasped his hands between his knees before lazily clapping them back together. He sighed and got out of the car. "Thanks for lunch, Ed," Al said, mustering a smile.

Ed felt a muscle in his chest begin to twist. "Just trying to make up for taking an hour to come get you," he replied dismissively.

Al's weary smile widened. "I understand," he said in a way that portended teasing. Ed narrowed his eyes at his brother, waiting for the punch line. "The timing must have been terrible if you had to bring Winry with you."

Ed rolled his eyes. He was not feeling up to the usual repartee; Rosenblatt's words still hung heavily in his ears.

Al grinned. "Really, brother, I apologize for _whatever_ I was interrupting."

Ed spoke over the tail of Al's goading. "You didn't interrupt anything, Al," Ed said, stripping the ease from the conversation instantly.

They stood by the car in silence, Al studying his brother's drawn face, already a few inches closer to the ground than his. In Ed's tired, tenacious eyes, Al saw the last two long years of life filled with six even longer years of memories, only parts of which Al knew and was learning every day. And from what he was beginning to see, Al knew that, for as lurid as his own waking nightmares were, Ed's had to be even worse.

"I've been talking with Professor Rosenblatt," Al said, breaking the heavy quiet. "He mentioned maybe referring me to someone in town." His voice was gentle but unapologetic.

Ed said, "A shrink." It was not a question.

Al nodded. "A doctor," he said. "I want to find a way to make this… the memories less intrusive."

This decision was only half selfish; Ed could tell. He wanted to fight his brother on this, to explain that Al did not need the help of some quack doctor with a six-shooter filled with mystery pills, all loaded for a long, expensive game of pharmacological Dracmese roulette. He drew in a breath to let loose a fiery refute but realized before speaking, however, that he would not be listing reasons why Al did not need a doctor; he would be listing the reasons why Al _should_ not need one. And, making his argument sound even less plausible, Ed recognized rather suddenly that he himself would be the only item on that list.

Understanding came crashing down around Ed – understanding he had been shooing away like buzzing insects ever since he witnessed Al's first retrieval nearly two years prior: Alphonse might need more than Ed had to offer.

"Hey, slowpokes!" Winry called from where she had finished setting out their meal on the blanket. "Lunch isn't going to stay warm forever, you know!"

Al broke away from his non-conversation with Edward and started toward Winry and lunch, saying something rather cheerful that Edward missed. Edward lingered by the car for a moment longer before following his brother.

Winry intentionally kept the conversation blithe, chatting it up, mostly with Al, about clients and grades and the Letoist church in town. The talk only lasted about as long as their sandwiches, and before long, Al had lain down on the blanket and fallen asleep to Winry stroking his hair.

She looked down at Al's now relaxed face and smiled. "Poor kid."

Ed did not reply.

"Who was that man? The one in the lecture hall?" Winry asked.

Edward stared at the couple that had now appeared on the rugby field, walking a lean, brown dog. "Dr. David Rosenblatt. He was Al's psychology professor a few semesters back."

The wind blew in and out of the pregnant pause between Ed and Winry. "Does he know?" Winry eventually asked, watching the same couple below them.

"Yeah."

They were quiet for a long moment—not long enough, however, for Edward to formulate a proper reply to the question he knew Winry was about to ask.

Winry noticed the way Ed's jaw began to clench before she spoke, but she did not particularly care. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"You've got enough on your plate," he said, shaking his head. "Your promotion and work and all."

Winry rolled her eyes toward the clouds now encroaching on the patch of blue above her. "I swear, Ed," she breathed, exasperated. "It must be tiring."

Ed glanced at her. "What is?"

She snapped her head around to face him. "Blaming yourself for _everything_. It must be exhausting."

Ed narrowed his eyes. "You know what, Winry—"

"No, _you_ know what, Ed?" she said. "If you would stop blaming yourself for every little thing that ever went wrong, then maybe things would get better. But nothing's ever going to be fixed if you're the only one who's allowed to do the fixing."

"Who's supposed to fix it if not the person who broke it?" Edward snapped.

"You're not the only one with a responsibility to help people, you know? And more than that, you're not the only person who wants to make this thing better! Can you imagine how _I_ must feel? This whole, horrible experience with Al and his memories, and I didn't even know about it? Knowing that you've been shouldering this stuff alone! What kind of friend—"

Ed cut her off. "What are you going to do about it? What does your professional expertise say about this?"

"Quit being an asshole every time someone offers you help, Ed. You know, the sooner you recognize that this is as hard on you as it is on Al, the sooner—"

"The sooner what? It's all gonna go away?"

Winry bristled. "The sooner you're going to remember that Al doesn't need an alchemist to fix his problems! So put away the books and the expertise and the god complex you've gotten down to an art, and help him find something that will fix it. Because, _clearly_, whatever you're doing isn't enough. So is it going to be about your pride and your guilt and your never-ending need to punish yourself, or is it going to be about stopping this… this torture?" She gestured to the seventeen-year-old boy snoring quietly against her thigh, to his bandaged hand, flung careless out in front of him.

Ed stared at her, his mouth slightly open as though the words were just pooling behind his lips, where he could not push them out.

"Save the alchemy for someone who needs it," Winry said, the bite taken out of her voice. "For every other person in the world, you can put your hands together and fix their problems. You're great at that. But there's only one person who needs you to be a brother, and I think you're so used to clapping your hands that you're scared you don't remember how not to."

A gust of wind rolled up the slope and met them face on, and somehow the awkward silence that followed Winry's incredibly perceptive verbal dissection of Edward seemed less awkward. At least, Winry felt it was a punctuation to a lecture she was not entirely sure how to conclude; she felt like a good apology would cap off the big pile of diatribe she was now appalled had poured out of her mouth, but she did not intend to take back one word.

So this was the other downside to childhood friends who last until adulthood, Ed thought as he flicked his eyes back toward the expanse of grass below them. To have someone recognize that you've erected a defense mechanism even before you do. Ed felt ridiculously predictable, and that made him even angrier with himself for not seeing it sooner. Had he really been inflicting his pride on Al this whole time?

"Ed, I—" Winry began, watching her fingers as they threaded and unthreaded in her lap.

"I'm gonna fix it," Ed said resolutely. His eyes followed the rolling boundary of light and shadow on the field below as the clouds began to creep farther from the sun. "Al told me that he wants to see a doctor in town."

"You should let him."

"I shouldn't have to let him," Ed replied. When Winry was silent, Ed looked at her. "He doesn't need my permission."

Ed watched as Winry's face began to relax, the straight line of her mouth easing upward on one side and her eyes bowing gently into soft crescents. The sensation of pressure settled on his metal fingers, and Ed glanced down to see Winry's hand over his.

In that moment, Ed resolved to tell Al about the letter from Russell Tringham. Alphonse could decide for himself what to do with it. Winry's words lingered in Edward's his mind, and he remembered that he had a responsibility to do something about it. He would contact Russell, dive into this new problem. And in the fresh, sore hole in his chest where his responsibility to protect his little brother used to go, this new responsibility brought him no comfort.

Ed let out a long, resigned sigh and looked out beyond the field, at the urban forest just past a chain-link fence. He heard Winry laugh quietly from his left. He knew she was laughing at his austerity, and somehow, that made him feel better.


	5. The Canto of Nasha

**A/N: Sorry for the delay there. Work and, you know, life and stuff. So, apparently, the document manager does not like to let me put in white space where I want to put them. It even deletes the little place-holding dashes I try to put in there. So, yeah. Sorry about that. Thanks, y'all. By the by, if you're reading this, there is a good chance that you dig EdWin Plot!fics, which means you're read Yuuki Hikari's HWSfH. If you haven't, then you totally should. But don't stop reading this. Please.  
**

**V. The Canto of Nasha**

The office after hours seemed like an entirely different world, separate from that of the outside or during the day. The dirty black mirrors that the windows had become betrayed nothing that went on in that other world, that one on the street. Cars drove by, people passed, doors opened and closed, but only the their aural shadows existed in Edward's empty, ubiquitous, seven o'clock office. The lack of sunlight pouring through the windows like powdered milk made the overhead light too bright, too glaring. Edward rubbed his tired eyes with a flesh hand.

The usual sounds of clicking heels and military vernacular had ebbed from a constant buzz to the occasional janitor or intern. Edward listened to someone pass the open door, her tapping shoes and shuffling papers lasting long after her blue uniform had flashed by the passage.

Edward sighed and tried to force himself to focus. Somewhere, Russell Tringham was wracking his massive, blonde head for whatever answers he thought Ed could provide. Across town, Alphonse was probably making dinner and stewing over the referral Professor Rosenblatt had given him, and just a little farther than that, Winry was… Winry was probably…

"Thinking of someone?" Mustang asked as he breezed into the room, sifting papers in an open manila folder.

"What?" Edward snapped, sitting up and gathering his pen from where he had dropped it.

"You looked like you were daydreaming," Mustang explained as he sank into the chair behind his desk. He tossed down his folder and looked away into a distance beyond the limiting realities of the office. "Perhaps thinking of some lovely, young—"

"Have you ever considered seeking professional help, General?" Ed barked. He felt his cheeks heating.

Mustang chuckled and rose to his feet again. "While mine was depressingly vacant, this was in your inbox." He tossed a letter down on Ed's desk before returning to his seat.

For a moment, Edward felt his heart stumble over a beat as it had been doing with every letter he'd received in the last few days. When Edward flipped it over, the front of the envelope revealed nothing about the sender. He tore a strip off one end of the envelope and shook the contents into his hand. His hopes sunk, however, when he saw military letterhead in his hands. It was notification of new staff in Human Resources. Hardly worth the paper it was printed on.

"Another village needs saving?" Mustang drawled as he leafed through a file on his desk.

"No," Ed replied, "But you're in luck." He held up the letter and pointed to a name on a bulleted list. "They've got a new psychotherapist in HR. I bet she can't _wait_ to meet you," he said with sardonic enthusiasm. When that did not get the rise out of Mustang that Edward wanted, he continued. "What are you doing here this late, anyway?"

Mustang's casual air seemed to thicken slightly into something more serious. "A potential case, actually."

"Ross's case?" Ed asked.

Mustang frowned down at a glossy, black and white photo on his desk. "She smuggled it up here if that's what you mean," he replied without looking up.

Ed made little effort to hide his revulsion. "What makes you think it has anything to do with alchemy?"

Before Mustang could begin his answer, the sound of two swiftly approaching military-issue pumps drifted into the door. Mustang quickly closed the cover of the file on his desk and slid it into a drawer. It always startled Edward, he thought, to see Mustang doing more than was required of him at work, even if he was doing it in the form of hiding out after hours to review a case he had no business reviewing.

A young, rather tired looking intern slid into the office in a way that just about every intern entered a room containing Brigadier General Mustang, lashes a little more fluttery, lips a little more pursed. Edward snorted and directed his attention to the report he was proofreading as a favor for Havoc.

She clicked up to Mustang's desk, and Mustang smiled a pleased smile despite the fact that he was not pleased. Occasionally, very occasionally, Mustang found himself mid-task in something from which even a twenty-something intern in after-hours leisure was not an appreciated distraction. Edward had known Mustang long enough to sense when those rare moments arose. Still, Edward had not anticipated this being one of them.

"Brigadier General," she said warmly but not overtly coquettishly.

"Miss Taggerty," Mustang said after a skillfully furtive glance at her clearance badge. His displeasure with the interruption notwithstanding, Mustang smiled a little more when the young woman's cheeks tinged pink.

Edward wondered silently, distantly if these women knew just how damn dupe-able they were in Mustang's company.

"I was in the mailroom, sir, and I saw this in your inbox. I was on my way up and thought I'd save you the trouble." She produced a small envelope and passed it into Mustang's gloved hand. "I hope you don't mind," she added.

"Not at all, Miss Taggerty. I'm very grateful."

"Have a good evening, General."

"You, too," Mustang called as the intern backed out the door rather pinker and more flustered than she had been when she entered. Once her quickened footfalls were muffled around a corner, Edward pushed his chair back hard.

"Didn't you just tell me your mailbox was empty?"

"I did," he answered. "The envelope has your name on it." Mustang pressed a thumb under the lip of the envelope and tore open the top. "Take a look at this," Mustang said, pinching a piece of paper, as he lifted his eyes toward Edward.

Edward abandoned his report and came around Mustang's desk. He snagged the slip of paper and brought it up to his face for examination.

Mustang's "Tell me that doesn't mean anything to you," registered distantly in Edward's ears, but he was too distracted to answer. On the paper before him, positioned exactly in the center was, "Nasha 6:17-18."

It meant nothing to Edward. But he knew it should.

Edward flipped over the paper. The back was blank. The writing on the front was nondescript. It was typical typewriter font punched through a fresh ribbon. "A little late for a mail drop, don't you think?"

Mustang crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. He cast his narrowed gaze at the police report on his desk for a moment before looking at Edward out of the side of vision. "Find out what that means," Mustang ordered. "And then tell me why someone wants me to know about it before you do."

The lights were on in the kitchen at the end of the dim foyer when Edward got home. He tossed his briefcase down by the stairs and shrugged out of his overcoat then his uniform coat. A shadow stretched and receded and stretched again across the linoleum at the end of the foyer, and Edward assumed it was Al working on something for dinner.

"Welcome home, Brother," Al called from the kitchen.

"Thanks," Edward replied not particularly gratefully.

Al was quiet until Edward sauntered into the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves and loosing the top two buttons of his shirt. "Wow, curb that enthusiasm," Al drawled. "You'll put someone's eye out, Brother."

Edward snorted and sank to a chair at the kitchen table. "Sorry."

Al turned away from the kitchen counter, holding two plates of thick, leafy BLT's. "You're home awfully late. Tough day?" Al asked as he set one plate down in front of Ed. Al set the other plate in front of an empty chair opposite Edward before disappearing behind the refrigerator door. He emerged a moment later with two brown bottles.

Edward deliberated for a moment on what to tell Alphonse—he had yet to tell his brother about the letter from Russell—and quickly decided dinner wasn't a good time; it was never a good time, Edward had noticed. He shrugged and stretched his arms, fingers interlocked, out before him. Edward grimaced at the way the motion pinched the straps of his shoulder holster between his biceps and his chest. "Same old grind." When Al put two chilly beers down on the table, Edward chuckled. "Wow, Al," he said. Al, who had been moving through the routine without much thought, paused midway between standing and sitting down and looked at Ed. "You'll make someone a fine wife one day," Edward concluded, nodding.

Al glared and sank into his chair. "Last time I do you a favor," Al muttered.

Edward reassured his brother that he was just teasing, and they both started into their sandwiches. "So," Edward began around a mouthful. "Did you make it out to see Doctor What's-his-face today?" he asked, making himself sound more comfortable with the idea than he really was.

Al could tell his brother was feigning nonchalance, but he was still grateful. "Dr. Lawson, actually." Al put down his beer and fished through his pocket for a moment. He pulled out a bent business card and tossed it across the tabletop to Edward. "It went really well, I think. I picked him because he's got a PhD in psychiatry and alchemic biology. I figured he might be better able to understand… you know, the memories and all."

There was a list of letters after the doctor's name, some combinations of which Edward didn't recognize. He found that comforting—the man clearly had a veritable cornucopia of education under his belt—and suspicious. "Did he?"

Al pulled an uncertain expression. "I think so. He didn't try to write me any prescriptions. I think that's a good sign."

Edward picked up the cream-colored business card and pinched it between his flesh thumb and forefinger. "Mind if I hang onto this?" he asked.

Al nodded. "Go ahead." He settled back in his chair and picked up his beer again. "I'm not looking for a cure or anything," he sighed and looked down at the wrinkled label on his drink. Al absently picked at the paper corner with his thumbnail. "I'm still hopeful, though."

Edward wanted to color the conversation black with his thoughts of how hopeful they should be when it came to a shrink, but his thoughts drifted quickly when he pocketed Dr. Lawson's business card and his fingers brushed over another piece of paper in his pocket. Al must have noticed a shift in Edward's expression because he asked if something were bothering Edward.

Edward sat still for a moment, hand in his pocket, eyeing the craters in the crusts Al had refused the cut off his BLT. He hesitated and then closed his fingers around the message to Mustang and pulled it out.

"Mustang got this in the office post today," Edward said, tossing the wadded up piece of paper in Al's direction. It bounced twice on the polished wood of the tabletop and skidded to a stop by Al's plate. "You wouldn't happen to recognize that, would you?"

Al furrowed his brow and smoothed out the paper. He scrutinized the text, his mouth working silently as he read the word to himself. "Oh," he said, "Yeah, I've seen this before. What are you doing with the General's mail?"

Edward sat forward suddenly. "You have?" Edward asked, startled.

"Sure," Al replied. "Down at the… where was it?" Al shifted his eyes from the wall to the ceiling and then back to the wall before snapping his gaze back to Ed. "Oh, yeah, the Letoist church. Did you take this from the General's inbox?"

Ed stood up quickly, his chair legs scraping across the floor. "Could you show me?"

"Right now?" Al asked incredulously.

"Right now," Ed replied, turning and hurrying down the foyer toward the hall closet.

"Brother!" Al called after him. He dropped the slip of paper onto the table with a sigh. "Stealing mail _and_ breaking and entering a church. Never a dull moment," he muttered. Alphonse stood up, pushed in his chair, and followed Edward to the front door.

"It was around here somewhere," Alphonse whispered and raised his flashlight higher. Both he and Edward were hunkered down on the bitingly cold stone floor of the vacant Letoist church, inching around the base of the statue of Leto in the center of the cathedral and trying to find exactly which passage inscribed in the stone mentioned Nasha. Above them, the black tarps over gaping window arches where pious stained glass scenes would soon be built flapped and snapped in the bitter, pre-storm wind. The deep, stone plinth under the statue rose to Edward's hip, but at the moment, Edward was on his hands and knees, flashlight between his incisors, squinting his eyes and dusting off the angular inscriptions in the stone.

Edward spat his flashlight out into his right hand. "This reminds me of the time you took me snipe hunting, Al." His little brother's laughter sounded from the opposite side of the base of the statue.

"If only Winry were here for this, too," Al gasped between laughs.

"Yeah, hardy har har. It's fucking cold, Al. Where is this thing?" Edward snapped before putting his flashlight back in his mouth, and Al chuckled away. Edward could taste the condensed vapor from his breath on the metal shaft of his flashlight; it was cold and slippery on his lips.

"Don't complain to me, Ed. I'd be happy doing this tomorrow when the sun's up and we won't have to pick the lock to get in."

Ed dropped his flashlight into his hand again. "This is important, Al," Edward said. He hesitated for a moment and ghosted his fingers over some engraved quotation marks. "It could be really important."

Edward heard Alphonse's shoes squeaking on the floor—he had stopped crawling and stood. "How important?" Al asked, suspicion creeping into his voice.

Edward let out a damp, cloudy sigh and rose to his feet. Alphonse was leaning around the side of the pedestal, aiming his flashlight at Ed's face. Edward winced away and shaded his eyes. "Put that damn thing down," he said. Al complied. "Maybe really important. I'm not sure just yet."

Al stared at his brother for a long moment. "You're not going to tell me, are you?"

Edward paused and just his quiet sounded guilty. "It's work stuff."

"Ah," Alphonse said, nodding. He cast the beam of his flashlight down to the plinth and gently knocked the toe of his boot against the stone. Amazing, Edward thought, just how perfected Al had the art of guilt-tripping. The kid didn't even need to say anything.

"Al," Edward began, but Alphonse disappeared behind the statue. "Al, come on." Edward followed Alphonse around until they stood on two ends of the Venn diagram the crisp beams of their flashlights made on the floor "Look, I've been meaning to tell you what's going on. I really have, but…" Edward hesitated.

"But?" Al prompted.

"Well, for starters, just knowing about it could implicate you," Edward explained. "I'm talking about a serious offense, too. The fact that I haven't gone straight to the top like a good soldier already guarantees me an OTH if the brass finds out."

"Well, gosh, Ed, thanks for protecting me," Al said flatly.

Edward narrowed his eyes. "But _mostly_, the whole thing deals with something we did when you were in the suit. But I guess since you're getting professional help for all that now, we can just jump right in."

It took Edward a fraction of a second to realize that he had made himself sound significantly harsher than he intended.

Alphonse stared at his brother for a pregnant moment. A draft blew between them, and Edward watched the wind sweep Alphonse's sand-colored bangs across his unblinking eyes and pull the black lapel of his overcoat against his cheek. Edward remembered then the only benefit of Al's face when it had been a steel mask: now, the kid could gouge a hole in Edward with his eyes alone.

"Let's find this stupid thing and go home," Alphonse said, colder than the sleet that had started pelting the slate roof of the church. He turned toward the statue and cast his light downward.

While his brother continued circumnavigating Leto, Edward dropped his arms to his sides and stood in place. His eyes slid closed and he let out a long, nubilous sigh. Silently, Edward wished he either had a thicker brain-mouth filter or was less of an asshole. "Do you remember the Tringhams?" Edward asked.

The shuffled footfalls of Alphonse's boots stopped. "Yes, I do."

"Then you remember the red water?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's what this is about," Edward said, feeling a weight—one he had not noticed he was carrying—lifted. He shined his flashlight on the words carved in the plinth and began walking slowly around the statue. "Russell sent me this cryptic letter, but someone had it delivered to Mustang instead of me."

"You don't think Russell was just dropping you a line?" Alphonse asked, his voice still low and a little hurt.

"Russell wouldn't waste the postage trying to shoot the shit with me. I think he was trying to get my attention, and the fact that the letter went to Mustang is even more suspicious."

"So why are we in a Letoist church at nine o'clock at night?"

"Today, Mustang got the slip of paper I showed you. It didn't mean anything to him, but it was delivered after the mailroom had closed, which means it was hand delivered by someone who didn't want Mustang to get it until the morning. I wasn't sure what it meant until you recognized it. Now I'm certain."

"Of what?" Alphonse asked.

"That slip was from Russell Tringham, and someone doesn't want me to know what he has to say." Edward dropped to a crouch to dust dried mud off the engraved words. "I think if I can figure out what _Nasha_ is about, I'll know what Russell wants with me. I've got this gut feeling, though, that it's red water. Why else would he contact me?"

"That makes sense, I suppose. Unless Russell really did just want to send you a friendly letter and it was just mistakenly delivered to Mustang, and someone was just playing a prank on him by sending him… I don't know, Letoist propaganda or something? There could be hundreds of reasons why someone would send him a message that didn't make sense. Doesn't he write everything in code anyway?"

"I'm not buying it," Edward replied firmly.

"Have you called Russell to ask? I think you might be getting yourself worked up over—oh, I found it!" Alphonse cried. Edward jumped to his feet and ran around the base of the statue, the bright circle of light hovering on the ground in front of him. Once Alphonse appeared in his light, Edward stopped and stooped next to his brother.

"What does it say?" Edward asked and looked to the words Alphonse had centered in his beam.

"'Through faith,'" Alphonse read, "'Salvation is granted to all men.' Nasha 24:27." Al looked over his shoulder at Ed, who was chewing on his thumbnail in thought. "It's a passage from their canon."

"The Book of the Sun," Edward thought out loud. "It's from the Canto of Nasha."

"Have you read it?" Alphonse asked, more than a little surprised.

"I never got to Nasha," Edward replied distractedly as he rose to his full height. He began casting his light around the cathedral. "Do they have an office around here somewhere?" Ed asked.

Al stood as well. "I'm sure they do," he said. Before Alphonse could continue that thought, Edward left his side. Al leapt into a run like his brother, and they took off down an aisle that split the pews. Alphonse raised his flashlight and scanned the arc of the wall they were approaching, and the beam blinked as it passed over a corridor in the wall. "Over there," Al said, pointing his light.

"Find a copy of that book," Edward called as he pulled ahead of his brother. "They've got to have a pile of them lying around somewhere."

Edward ran down the hall first. He stopped suddenly in front of the first door on the right and tried to knob, but it was locked. Alphonse ran passed Ed and tried the next door in the left wall of the hall, but it was locked as well. They worked their way down the hall, trying doors until Edward's impatience got the best of him.

Alphonse hardily had time to notice the snapping of the thumb break on Ed's holster before a gun fired, showering the hall in splinters and sending a door flying open. Alphonse spun around and saw his brother pointing his gun and flashlight at the now open door. The room within was exactly what Edward had hoped. Across from the door was a large window, under which a squat desk sat, cluttered with papers. Both walls to the right and left of the door had new, sturdy-looking bookshelves, sparsely populated with stacks of books on their sides.

"Brother!" Alphonse yelped as he ran back to where Edward was passing through the doorway. "Was that _absolutely_ necessary?"

"Quit whining and help me look for a copy of that damn book," Edward demanded. He dove for the desk and began sweeping papers onto the floor. When that tactic revealed nothing, Edward started pulling out and emptying drawers with a fervor that increased with every moment they did not find the book.

Alphonse took the bookshelf to the right of the door, and began scanning titles with his right index finger and his light. Alphonse worked quickly, looking from right to left, top to bottom while Edward grumbled and rustled through the desk. Many of the titles were in Ishballan, the language of Lior before it was annexed by Amestris, and Alphonse worried that he would miss the book if it weren't translated. He had learned Ishballan over the six years he traveled with Edward, but his grasp of the language was coming back to him in piecemeal just like everything else.

Alphonse scanned book after book, stack after stack. Finally, he cried triumphantly when he found a thick, leather-bound tome on a shelf at about hip-height. "The Book of the Sun" was inscribed on the thick spine in unforgiving, gilded letters.

Edward dropped the drawer he was riffling through with a muted thud – it landed in the pile of invoices it had been storing – and hurried to the bookshelf. Alphonse snatched the book off the shelf and passed it to Ed, who opened the book halfway and flipped frantically.

When the word "Nasha" appeared in the top corner of all the pages, Edward slowed. "Six-seventeen, six-seventeen," Edward muttered. He ran his metal index finger over the text while Alphonse held a flashlight over his shoulder.

"Here it is," Edward said, his finger hovering by the number six in a slightly larger font than the rest of words. "'And all the crops died, and the fish,'" Edward read out loud. "'The sky grew dark, and all knew they had fallen from Leto's favor. The people grew weak and pale, and despair flowed as abundantly as the river that poured red as blood from the mountainside.'"


	6. Xenotime, Part I

**A/N:** Get ready for some peril because there's totally peril in this chapter. And some UST. I've gotta tell y'all, I'm really enjoying writing this story and receiving the feedback I do receive, but it's actually quite discouraging to see how many people read and don't leave feedback. I don't know if I'm producing something that folks want to read or just something I enjoy producing. So, yeah. Let me know. Thanks, y'all.

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**VI. Xenotime, Part I**

With a sigh, Edward checked his watch. It was nearly ten in the morning on a particularly clear Monday. Edward looked down at his shoes, toeing the first rectangle of warm, yellow sunlight he seen on the beige linoleum in days. In a few minutes, Edward anticipated, Havoc would be pulling up with a car, ready to take Edward to the station to catch the train for a two-day ride to Xenotime.

Edward rocked his head to the right until his neck popped. He did the same to the left. It had been a very long time since he had to ride the train, let alone for two days. At least he wouldn't be riding a military convoy this time. Civilian trains served liquor, and schnockered, Edward had found, was the only way to travel. He quickly reconsidered the benefit of that—he did not think that the pleasure of being inebriated for a few hours would outweigh the pain of being hungover for the day and a half of the rest of the trip. He shuddered a little at the thought of how uncomfortable the jostling cars and unforgiving seats would be without the nausea and headache.

A knock at the front door distracted Edward from his waves of apprehension, and he picked up his suitcase and headed into the foyer. Edward expected to see the blue of a military uniform peeking through one of the windows flanking the front door. Instead, he saw something faintly grey. Edward furrowed his brow, set his luggage by the stairs, and opened the door.

"I'm so glad I caught you!" Winry said, clapping her hands before her chest. "Thanks for calling and letting me know you were leaving," she added sarcastically, giving Edward a classic Winry Stink Eye: lips tightened and left eye scrunched almost closed.

Edward was forced backwards as Winry walked through the door. She swung the door closed behind her and leaned against it, letting out a long sigh that condensed thinly in the dissipating chilly air she had let in. Edward felt the bolt of fear, which had shot down his spine at the sight of her, easing into the thick, relieved sensation of an unused dose of adrenaline. Without Ed's knowing, Al had called Winry at eight that morning when he found out that Edward had forgotten to tell her he was leaving. Edward had anticipated a walnut handle kiss to the head, and Winry seemed uncharacteristically forgiving because of its absence. As far as Ed knew, Winry thought nothing said _bon voyage _like physical violence.

"I'm catching a ten-thirty train," Edward said, trying to hide his relief by sounding inconvenienced. "Why'd you come all the way out here?"

Winry folded her hands behind her tailbone and bent one knee, turning the tear in her jeans there into an open mouth of her pink skin. Edward caught himself looking at the way the fine blonde hairs on her knee all ran in one direction—like moss in a riverbed, he thought—and he jerked his eyes up. He saw, instead, the top of Winry's head as she cast her eyes downward at her boots. "I wanted to say goodbye, genius," she confessed tartly.

That sent a bolt of something different down Edward's spine.

"Would it kill you to call or something?" she asked, glaring through the corn silk curtains of her bangs. "Give me day's notice at least."

An engine rumbled to a stop outside the house, and Edward glanced out the beveled window to see a charcoal-colored blur stopped in the street in front of his stairs. "Something came up," Edward said. "Had to plan the trip in a hurry."

Winry raised her head, revealing that her exaggerated frown had receded into something subtler. She looked disappointed, but the way her brow smoothed let Edward know she was resigned. "Do you need help with anything?" she asked.

Edward opened the hall closet and pulled out his overcoat. "I've got it. Thanks," he said as he shrugged into his coat. He caught sight of her wiping her palms on her thighs.

"How long do you think you'll be gone?" she asked, stepping away from the door.

Edward bent and picked up his suitcase. "A couple of weeks, I think," he said. Winry opened the front door for him, revealing Havoc leaning against the driver's side door of a car in the street below them. He glanced over his shoulder at Edward and Winry and waved with a cigarette pinched between his index and middle fingers.

Winry followed Edward out of the house, trotting down the stairs behind him. She took his suitcase from his hand before Edward could reach the car and tossed it into the trunk for him.

Usually, she said goodbye over the phone, or, if she came out to see Edward off, she would stand at the bottom of the stairs leading up to Edward's door. She would hold down her skirt in the wind with one hand and wave with the other. Or she would occupy her non-waving hand with spinning Edward's grudgingly relinquished car keys around the narrow last knuckle of her index finger. Or she would shade her eyes or sip a beer or tug at the front of her blouse to dry the sweat on her chest. Regardless of what her hands were doing, Winry always waited at the stairs, shuffling her soles on the sidewalk. Today, however, she trapped Edward in the angle of the open door and the side of the car. The air between then, Edward would have sworn, was warming and beginning the thrum in time with the blood he felt pulsing in his ears.

"Sorry I didn't call you?" Edward offered and rested his hand on the door.

"Yeah, well, do better next time," Winry said, but some of the bite was missing.

Edward furrowed his brow. "Uh, are you all right?" he asked. With Winry's head down like that, Edward risked a glance at his pocket watch.

She looked up. "Oh, yeah," Winry said, with a dismissive wave. "I just… uh," she cast her eyes to the side, then at the buttons on Edward's shirt, then at the car. "I'll miss you, I guess?" she concluded with a hopeful smile. She sucked her lower lip into her mouth then sunk her teeth into it.

Edward laughed. "I'll be back in no time," he said, trying not to stare at how her lip moistened as she chewed on it or how her shiny, white incisors worked her pink skin back and forth until it was red. He got the sudden impression that she noticed him watching her mouth, and Edward snatched his gaze up to her eyes. They were smiling at him, too.

"Well," he said and cleared his throat, "Train schedules wait for no one."

Before Edward could sink back into the safety of the military car, he felt those same lips, now unbidden by Winry's teeth, pressing against the corner of his mouth, too far from his cheek to be a friendly peck but close enough to be more than poor aim. He could feel the creases in her lips and the slight scrap of a corner of skin dried out from the cold. Her fingers settled on his wrist and closed, reiterating her mouth's message.

"Hurry back," Winry breathed, drawing back enough to look Edward in the eye. Her breath blew across his mouth, and after a motionless moment she began to laugh. Edward realized, as Winry giggled into her fingers, that she was laughing at him, at the look of terror he had not realized had settled on his face. She stepped back onto the sidewalk. "Travel safe, Ed," she said, waving.

"Thanks," Edward managed to say before he slipped into the back seat and closed the door. He felt Havoc's gaze in the rearview mirror. Edward looked up and saw Havoc grinning at him. "Shut up and drive," Edward growled.

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Every time he thought about it, Edward felt his throat constrict a little and his pulse quicken just slightly. His face heated up somewhat, and it became rather hard to breathe. It felt vaguely like the time when Lieutenant Ross had mistakenly maced him last Halloween, just without the flames scorching the living hell out of his eyeballs. If, he thought, Winry kissed him while wearing that perfume he was allergic to, it would feel just like aerosol pepper-spray to the face.

Edward rubbed his face hard with his left palm, blinked and sighed. He had to stop thinking about it or he'd go nuts. Besides, there were more important things to worry about like… uh…

Winry's hand had been too small to wrap all the way around his wrist. He remembered the pads of her fingers pressing—

He glared out the window. Damnit, there were people dying of red water exposure. Focus!

A baby across the aisle began to cry, and it mother quickly gathered it into her arms and cooed. Edward jerked his head around, startled by the sound, but he promptly relaxed. The mother looked up at him with an apologetic smile. He smiled back. The little loaf in the woman's arms shrieked away.

Edward looked out the window again. He'd been on the train for only a few hours, and already he could feel his hard-earned tolerance for cabin fever was failing him. A few years ago, a two-day train ride would have been nothing. He spent more time on trains that he did off. Edward could remember using the hours in transit to catch up on sleep—being on the ground usually called for him to be running all cylinders constantly. On the ground, sleep was a luxury. But, train rides? No, train rides were when he could relax—as long as there weren't insurgents launching an assault on that particular day on that particular train. Terrorism aside, Edward usually took each trip as a mini, much-needed vacation. Why, then, he wondered, was this trip already off to an antsy, claustrophobic start?

Edward glanced at the child across the aisle, still demonstrating its impossible lung capacity.

He pulled his suitcase from where he had stowed it under his seat before departure. Setting his luggage on his knees, Edward opened the latches with a quiet _click click._ Tucked into a pocket on the lid, between his toothbrush and his motor oil, was a deck of cards in a little cardboard box that had seen better days. Edward fished out the cards and closed his suitcase. He slid his thumb under the tab of the top of the box and dumped the cards into his palm.

The cards were some off-brand, the gloss wearing thin and the corners fraying. Edward shuffled them, feeling the suppleness of age and lots and lots of use. From one hand to the other, he shuffled the cards before wedging them into the crease in his left palm and fanning them out under his thumb – the cards were too slick to handle with his right hand. Edward had to keep from laughing at the memories that spread out like the simple designs on the backs of his playing cards.

Balmy summers and bitter winters, long, lazy days and cramped, sore-necked nights, lifetime after lifetime crammed into a jostling train car without climate control, all recorded in the red lines that zigzagged across the blue backs of fifty-two decrepit rectangles of card stock Edward had lost and found then lost and found again. The patterns were fifty-two repetitions of the same Rorschach test, and in each one, Edward saw himself on an uncomfortable, wooden bench with—leaning against, sleeping on, talking to—a suit of armor, unrepentantly rigid and clanking out peals of irony because the softest, kindest person Edward knew was trapped inside.

Edward adjusted his suitcase on his knees and dealt himself a game of solitaire.

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The train rumbled and shuddered as it decreased its speed in Xenotime, and Edward was jarred awake when a conductor kicked the bench as he passed. Edward sat up suddenly and looked around. Passengers were already climbing to their feet, holding on to the backs of benches for stability as the remnants of the train's previous momentum were expended in spurts. Edward turned his attention to Xenotime's joke of a train station as it crawled by his window. It was still a concrete slab, stretching for a handful of meters. In the years since Edward had been there, they had erected a ticketing kiosk and a corrugated metal roof. Beyond the platform, two sets of stairs reached to the ground and a new parking lot yawned for about twenty stalls. Edward smiled and thought that the Xenotime Tourism Board was certainly trying.

Once the train was stopped, Edward wedged his way into the line of passengers waiting to exit. He shuffled along the aisle, crept down the steps onto the platform, and elbowed through the crowd until he was standing at the edge of the parking lot. With a sigh, Edward dropped his suitcase and stretched his arms over his head. He let out a very satisfied groan that opened into a long yawn.

"Jesus," he muttered under his breath—the term was one he had picked up during his other-world stint and must have sounded quite strange to Amestrians, particularly those who happened to have a PhD in ancient religions.

Edward surreptitiously checked the time on his pocket watch—he wanted to keep a low profile seeing as how he was supposed to be at his great aunt Gertrude's funeral, or so whomever General Mustang answered to thought. His train had arrived ten minutes late is seemed.

Compared to those at Central station, the crowd scuffling off the platform and into the lot was small. Considering, also, the lack of security guards hunting and picking out anyone in a hurry—just to make a quota, Edward had once told a posted guard, earning himself a night in the pokey—the Xenotime train station wait was nothing. Still, Edward couldn't see through the shifting wall of bodies, and he was beginning to get frustrated.

He checked his watch, slightly less furtively than before.

"So much for being covert," Edward muttered as another person bumped into his shoulder.

After five minutes, Edward was swinging his silver pocket watch around his index finger—the chain had broken almost a month ago, but he never had the time get another military-issue one.

Edward sighed and dropped his head forward. He didn't think a Podunk like Xenotime would have cabs, but he thought it was worth checking. After a short conversation with the young woman at the ticket window, Edward learned that a Podunk like Xenotime didn't have cabs or, for that matter, a public phone to call a cab had there been any.

"I'm sorry, sir," the attendant said, smiling so apologetically her eyes had disappeared. Edward stared at her for a moment, thinking she looked more like she was grimacing than anything else.

"No problem," Edward said, half forced good humor and half dejected resignation. "It'll be good to stretch my legs." He gave her an unconvincing smile, gathered his luggage, and headed into the parking lot.

Edward was immediately struck at how run down Xenotime looked. The edge of town closest to the train station was mostly cluttered sidewalks and boarded up storefronts. Edward estimated that he passed more expanses of plywood than he did greasy shop windows. The windows he did pass tended more toward the pawnshop and liquor store persuasion than anything else. More pervasive than the seedy businesses were the people loitering. Edward did not remember seeing this many Xenotime citizens waiting even though his last visit was in the thick of an economic slow-down. People hung out at street corners. Children lingered in the inset entrances to closed shops. Sickly looking patients formed a despondent queue in front of the only pharmacist's shop Edward had passed, and the line did not move an inch in the time it took Edward to see it in the distance, walk by without making eye contact, and turn a corner.

This was poverty, Edward thought: middle aged women hanging out their windows and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes; skinny children flocking to rusted playgrounds and blacktops; old men on benches, waiting, waiting, waiting.

Waiting for the gold to come back.

Edward fished around in his pocket for the slip of paper he had picked up during his last day at the office. On it was written the address of the Alchemic Agriculture Research and Development Institution. If Edward knew the Tringhams, they were toiling away over enhanced soybeans and looking for a way to put some pounds on those malnourished children playing in the street.

Edward turned on to Primrose Avenue, the road that would lead him to the AARDI building, and he immediately noticed a change.

And this was gentrification, Edward thought. Shining, aluminum awnings hung over the entrances to expensive-looking boutiques, to blindingly coruscating jewelry stores, and to the surprisingly frequent high-end tobacco shops. Bruce's Pipes, The Gentleman's Leaf, The Smoke Screen. Edward noticed as many ritzy tobacco shops in the moneyed part of Xenotime as closed businesses in the third-world neck of town. All the shops—tobacco and otherwise—had forest green painted doorframes and windowpanes. They had swinging signs that hung on wrought iron posts, all contrived to look rustic and charming. There were no handprints or smudges on the windows, which, Edward imagined, was a sign of a company that could afford a window-cleaner every other day.

This area made Edward more nervous than the ghetto did. He found himself holding his suitcase tighter, resting his hand, through the fabric of his overcoat pocket, on the thumb break of his pistol, watching passersby a little closer than before.

The AARDI building was a large, angular structure, covered in grey stucco. It appeared to be a square perimeter, with a high, pointed greenhouse roof rising out of the center. The sun glinted off the slanted roof, casting sharp bolts of light on the sidewalk over which Edward approached. Edward shaded his eyes with his gloved right hand and squinted toward the AARDI building. On the front of the structure, to the right of the main, glass paned, double-doors, the abbreviation of the building's occupying agency was mounting on the wall in glossy, black metal letters. It looked Spartan, with simple, kempt greenery. No flowers, no trees. Just even, leafless, deciduous trees. Edward wondered how a group dedicated to horticulture could have such boring landscaping.

There was no one at the door checking for identification. This was not Central, Edward thought. There was no one worth fearing here, it seemed, and Edward wondered if the citizens of Xenotime knew that the only thing worth fearing was just that, a _thing_. A thing they could not see. A thing they did not even know about.

Before entering, Edward looked up toward the old, worn-down mountain that loomed over the city. He remembered a great deal about that mountain, about the occupants of the mountain. Even after all the years, none of the trees had grown back. Not even saplings.

Edward pushed thought the front doors into a short, wide corridor, which ended in a window in the wall. A young woman sat behind the sliding glass front of the window, filing her nails. Tax dollars well spent, Edward thought.

"Excuse me," Edward said, knocking the knuckles of his flesh hand on the window and getting the woman's attention.

She set down her file and slid open the window. "Can I help you?" she asked, sounding like she did not really want to help Edward at all.

"I'm looking for Russell Tringham."

"Do you have an appointment?" she asked.

Without hesitating, Edward replied, "He's expecting me."

She slid the window shut and lifted a phone to her mouth. She punched a series of buttons, spoke something into the receiver, listened a moment, and then returned the phone to the hook. She pushed the window open again.

"Go down this hall," the woman pointed with her thumb to the right, "take the first right and follow the signs to the Alchemic Modification wing."

"Thanks," Edward replied and took off down the hall.

The Alchemic Modification wing opened into the greenhouse in the center of the building. Edward found himself standing in a corridor in which a large window looked into the greenhouse. A group of men and a handful of women worked on the other side of the window in unseasonably light clothing. Edward anticipated a lot of people in full coverage masks, leaning over papery, burnt-looking seedlings, but the greenhouse seemed to be flourishing. The walls were lined with aluminum tables covered in large flats of sprouts poking out of black soil. Tables occupied most of the room, each table designating different stages of growth. The largest plants were undoubtedly young tobacco plants.

Edward stood at the window for a moment before a shockingly blonde man looked up at him and set down the clipboard in his hands. He gave a big smile and gestured for Edward to meet him at the glass door leading from the corridor to the greenhouse.

Russell pushed open the door and began wiping his hands on his shirttails. He stuck out his sweaty right hand, which Edward shook. Without preamble, Russell pulled Edward into a close hug and hissed harshly into his ear, "_What took you so long, you bastard?_"

x

x

x

"Your timing was perfect," Russell said from the kitchen, "Even if it took you a fortnight longer than I thought it would."

Edward flexed his socked feet in front of the fire, working the blood back into the toes of his remaining foot. He was fast approaching the point when he would feel the heat in his automail, which would mean the metal would be bordering on too hot to touch. He dragged his left heel across the thick, cream-colored carpet and closer to the couch.

They had returned to Russell's plantation house on the eastern outskirts of town a quarter hour before. Russell had started a fire in the hearth and headed into the kitchen to make them something to drink. Edward reclined on the couch, remembering how nice plush upholstery felt on his travel-worn backside, and tried to work the sticky cold out of his mechanical joints.

The Tringham Plantation rose like a pale rock formation out of Russell's twenty acres of farmland. Only about ten acres were in production then—mostly tobacco with a small truck farm Russell share-cropped out to his workers—the rest was fallow until the summer. Russell's home was a three-floor example of home grown opulence from a bygone era when agriculture and the slave trade were the only businesses. Complete with dormer windows, a wrap-around porch, and blue-gray shutters, Russell's house was too large to be quaint but too old-timey to be fancy. The interior, however, was an expanded bachelor pad, with enough furniture to get the job done and not a splinter more. It reminded Edward somewhat of what his house looked like before he gave Al and Winry a budget and told them to go nuts. Not one window in Russell's living room had curtains.

Russell returned to the parlor with two plain, white mugs of something steaming. He handed one to Edward and settled himself on the couch.

Edward took a sip of his drink and sputtered.

"Christ, Russell," Edward exclaimed. "It's two in the afternoon." The tea Russell had brought in was possibly two parts water to one part Maker's Mark.

"If you were here a week ago, you could complain," Russell said, pushing his hair out of his eyes.

Edward eyed Russell, his tired, slumped shoulders, the circles under his eyes, the hint of a receding hairline. "You look like shit, Russell," Edward noted. He put his eyes on the fire and finished, "I should have been here a month ago."

"I'd been back at the office for a quarter hour when you showed up," Russell explained. "I've been up to my knees in sewage for a week now, testing the city water."

"And?" Edward asked.

Russell sighed. "We've had to change out the filters at the treatment plant every three days. I go down there twice a week and find sheets of red silt in the pipes where the filters once were."

"That's part of the job description for the Director of Alchemic Modifications?"

"I'm not getting paid to do it, if that's what you're asking."

Edward cracked a grin. "How'd you afford digs like this?" he asked with a gesture to the hardwood floors and elaborate plaster molding on the ceiling.

Russell snorted. "The government subsidizes tobacco every step of production from germination to the spit-wads on saloon floors," he answered. "I could retire a very wealthy, comfortable man if I wanted."

"Why don't you?" Edward said.

Russell hesitated. "You should say hi to Fletcher. He's been asking when you'd show up."

x

x

x

Fletcher sat at a desk with a pretty young woman in his lap. When Russell knocked on the open door, the girl stood up, flustered and smoothing her skirts. Fletcher looked up suddenly from the paperwork before him. He must have been eighteen or nineteen then, still all elbows and knees like any adolescent boy. But there was something different. Fletcher's clothes hung off him. His cheekbones stood out like cliffsides; his eye sockets were sunken bowls holding his bright, blue eyes.

"Edward!" Fletcher said excitedly. He put his hands on his desk and pushed himself up. The young woman, now mostly bright pink cheeks peeking through her soft, brown hair, handed Fletcher a cane leaning against the side of the desk that Edward could not see. Fletcher took the cane and walked himself to the door. He pushed out his right hand enthusiastically. "Good to see you."

Edward shook his hand. "You, too," he said, looking into Fletcher's eyes if only to keep himself from looking at Fletcher's bandy legs or cane.

"This," Fletcher said, gesturing to the young woman behind him, "is Sophia Reynolds, my fiancée. We're getting married in the fall."

"No kidding," Edward said, mustering excitement. "How do you do?" Edward asked, offering Sophia his right hand. She took it in a dainty, debutante sort of grasp, and Edward wondered if she were expecting him to kiss it. She looked like a nice plantation girl. Well moneyed. Educated, probably. Healthy.

"Edward and I have some things to go over, but we'll see you both at dinner?" Russell offered.

"Sure. Good to see you, Ed," Fletcher replied.

Edward nodded. "You, too. Miss Reynolds." The girl nodded, still pink and silent.

Russell and Edward headed back to the parlor, and they did not speak until they were halfway down the stairs and out of earshot of Fletcher.

"She's pretty," Edward said.

"I don't know if Fletcher will get a chance to marry her."

Edward had not wanted to say it, but part of him had hoped that Russell realized the condition his brother was in. "Do you have a doctor available?"

"Yeah. I hired someone from Central's Poison Control Center. Specializes in alchemic medicine. Still, he's just one man, and there are a lot of sick people in this town."

"You couldn't bring him out just for Fletcher?"

Russell stopped on the stairs and turned back to Edward. "Have you _seen_ the people here? The epidemic in the ghettos? Fletcher is weak, but he is not actively dying. I assume you saw the line outside the apothecary?" Edward nodded. "They're there every day. Probably once a week, someone collapses in that line."

Edward felt something in his chest clench. He should have been here a month ago.

x

x

x

"It's in the water table, as far as I can tell," Russell supplied as he and Edward parked Russell's car at the trailhead. Above them, the mountain rose steeply upward into a gentle mound like a fresh grave. The sun was still low to the eastern horizon, and the mountain blocked the direct light from touching the foothills. In a few hours, the tobacco fields and lemon orchards would be awash in warm, yellow sun. "We managed to save the tobacco crops through irrigation with city water. I wouldn't touch the stuff that comes out of the well."

"And the people in the projects?"

"They're still drawing from public wells. I'm petitioning the city counsel to have the handles taken off the pumps, but that would mean updating the city water lines. And the government doesn't fund humanitarian projects."

Edward righted the pack on his back as he and Russell headed up the trail. What once was a deciduous forest almost a decade prior, was still a barren moonscape of a slope. Much of the soil had washed away in thick, brown rivulets whose eroded gullies still remained, crusty with poisoned earth. Now much of the view was rugged granite boulders that rose out of the ground like the skulls of giants disinterred, awakened from their subterranean hibernation. In places along the trail, the ground became crumbly and slid out from under Edward's feet. Russell explained that large underground tracts were collapsing in on themselves because of the sudden loss of very old, established tree roots, leaving channels of loose earth and silty mud.

"Mugear raped this mountain, then Fletcher and I murdered it."

Edward thought of the Romans plowing salt into the blood-soaked fields of Carthage, rendering them fruitless.

"I'm not sure," Russell started, looking uphill toward the mountain face, "I'm not sure what I think is the best case scenario here, you know? If everything goes right, what does a fixed Xenotime even look like?"

"_Carthago delenda est_," Edward muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing."

Up ahead, a sheer wall of stone rose up out of the mountain, and the path took a turn to the right around a curve in the rock face. The path had begun to slope up sharply now with rough hewn steps made out of crags in the rock and places where the earth had collapsed after a tree root had decomposed. Edward found himself using his hands now as much as he used his feet, clawing up as the ground raised from forty-five degrees to fifty to fifty-five. His shoulders began to ache in a sort of cloudy, distant way that promised some serious hurt in an hour or so. Russell, who led the way, continued up and up. He followed the path around the curved rock face, running his left hand along a crack in the stone in a way that struck Edward as particularly attentive. They paused periodically while Russell pressed his palm firmly to the stone face, a look on his face as though he were listening very carefully.

Edward furrowed his brow at the third time they stopped, still hugging the curving rock face. He, too, pressed his left hand to the stone. He felt nothing.

"What are you feeling for?" Edward asked.

"It's more of a sound," Russell replied, his brow creased and eyes cast down in focus. "I'm feeling for a sound."

"What are you talking about?" Edward asked and shifted the straps of his pack as they cut harder and harder into his shoulders.

"Thousands of gallons of red water are moving through here. Just a few feet in. If you focus, you can feel it rushing under your hand." His voice was low, almost loving.

Edward gave Russell a quietly alarmed look. "How much time have you been spending up here, Russell?"

Russell snapped his eyes up. "Tell me you wouldn't do the same if _Alphonse_ were dying?" he asked.

That shut Edward up with a bolt of shame down his spine. He wondered if Alphonse were making his doctor's appointments all right.

They continued along the path as it dipped into the rock and out. The left flank of the path was the rippling rock face, and the right side progressively dropped away, first into a gentle slope down and then into quite a fall. Both Edward and Russell, shifting from climbing up on all fours and walking on their feet, hugged the mountainside to their left.

As the sun rose up and up overhead, Edward realized that, as he climbed, despite the biting wind that blew through them, he was growing gradually closer and closer to the sun. The skin on his upper lip was beginning to sting as were the tops of his ears.

When the sun was over them, the path seemed to split. The right fork continued down the steep but manageable shoulder of the path while the left fork sunk back into a cove in the rock face. From the mouth of the opening, Edward could see that it continued a few hundred yards back before deadending into the rock face. Along the side of the corridor of stone, only just now feeling the touch of the sun, a deep, wide crack gapped.

"That," Russell said, pointing at the crack in the rock, "Is what we came here for."

They veered off down the left fork, into the cool, angled shadows. If Edward stretched his arms out, he could almost touch both walls of the corridor with his fingertips, and the air at the bottom of the brief chasm was blessedly cool and still.

Once about halfway down the dip in the rock, Russell stopped and slipped his pack off his shoulders. "Here," Russell said, gesturing to a widening of the crack near his shoulders. "Put your ear here and tell me what you hear."

Edward complied, sticking his head into the crack where it was about a foot wide. The angled sides of the crack were cold and damp with dew. And deep within, from somewhere back and slightly down, Edward could hear liquid rushing. The thousands of gallons of red water making their way through the mountain.

"Where does it come out?" Edward asked as he extracted his head from the crack.

"That's what we're here to figure out," Russell said, brandishing a pickaxe from his pack.

x

x

x

Edward felt something in his automail shoulder pinch and pop.

"Shit!" he yelled, dropping the pickaxe. For a moment, a streak of pain shot through his shoulder, down his back and up into his neck where it pooled at the base of his skull. Edward curled inward briefly, and then the pain passed as quickly as it had arrived.

"Are you all right?" Russell asked, resting the head of his pickaxe on the chasm floor.

Edward assessed for a moment. "Yeah," he said, knowing that he was not. "I'm fine." When he hoisted the weighty pickaxe over his head against, he could feel the pivot joint catching, the ball grinding inside the socket. He winced slightly, and Russell did not see.

They had been chipping away at the crack in the stone face for almost an hour now. While Russell had entered into the task assuming Edward would clap his hands and create them a vaulted entrance, Edward had succinctly and somewhat cryptically explained that if could be done without alchemy, it shoulder be. This was a new policy for Russell, particularly coming from Edward. He accepted, however, and resigned himself to a long, difficult afternoon. It was slow work, but they eventually had widened the space to about two feet and were working at the back of the split where the crack narrowed. They could see that the crack opened into a larger space. They simply had to open the crack enough for a man to pass through.

"Ready to give it a try?" Russell asked as he lowered his pick after a loud, intense blow at the stone.

Edward squinted into the crack. It was still only about a foot at the back where the crack led to the cavern, but they were not going to be able to get back there unless one of them fed himself into the crack.

They both knew that, even with this new injury, Edward was the fittest of the two of them. Because neither of them knew what lay beyond the crack, it was understood that Edward, who, even after months of a desk job, could do more chin-ups than Russell, was best suited for the trek.

Edward curled his fingers into crags above the widened crack. Russell watched the ropey muscles flex in Edward's flesh forearm as he easily lifted his legs up and fed his body, feet first, into the rib-cage-high crack.

"Can you get through?" Russell asked.

Edward focused all his attention on his legs, feeling closely for any sensation of pinching or sticking. Carefully, he inched his body down the crack. He felt the toes of his boots catch the lip of the innerwall of the cavern and then slip through. With his fingers still clinging to the edge of the crack, Edward slipped in and in, slowly and carefully. His knees passed through. His thighs passed. His felt the crests of his hip bones graze the top of the crack but pass through with little effort. His legs dangled inside the cavern, finding no easy purchase on the wall.

"I think," Edward said as he hoisted himself back out of the crack. He curled up until his feet were back outside then dropped from to the rock floor of the corridor. "I can fit."

"Great," Russell said. He seized Edward's pack where it lay on the ground and pulled out a black leather pelvic harness. "Do you trust me?" he asked, lifting the harness before Edward's widened eyes.

With nothing before his eyes to distract him, Edward found himself fantasizing about the unequivocal joy he would feel once he could take off that goddamn harness. Short of automail installation, this was the most uncomfortable he had ever been below the waist. The leather harness did all kinds of cinching and pulling, and Edward could not wait until his feet touched the cavern floor. Up above him, light poured through the crack in the wall, casting a vein of grey-white on the wall behind him. Russell's quiet sighs and groans echoed through the cavern.

"All right up there?" Edward called, a hand cupped around his mouth.

"You. Weigh," Russell grunted, "A. Metric. Fucking. Ton."

Edward chuckled. It must be all his automail, he thought. But when he thought about his automail, he thought about Winry. And when he thought about Winry, he thought about her lips pressed to his—in his memory the kiss was a lot more deliberate than it had been in reality. He thought about her saying she would miss him. He thought about the sensation of his fingers on his skin. And when he thought about all that, his harness got_ a lot_ more uncomfortable.

Dangling like a worm on a hook, engulfed in a cold, damp darkness, waiting for what he knew not, Edward allowed his mind to wander further. With nothing else to fill his eyes, memories flooded in. Things he had not considered in a very long time. He wondered about Winry and then about the last woman he'd slept with. The eldest daughter of a Jewish family that he and his father had hidden in the carriage house of the summer home of a colleague. The countryside was hot and muggy that summer, and they had had sex against the side of the icebox where the air was thin and cool. Afterwards, she had run her fingers through his straight, blonde hair, comparing it to her dark, curly, thick hair which frizzed a little in the heat. "This," she explained, "keeps you safe."

Edward did not have the heart to explain that, despite his blonde hair and light eyes, he was a cripple. Even if missing limbs were not genetic, he would never be allowed to live like a normal person. They would never permit him to marry, to have children, to do normal human prerogative sorts of things. No, what really protected him were his father's connections. Bribery and flattery. That was what kept him safe.

He thought of the woman before that. A girl with a thick accent who sold flowers at the corner outside his father's townhouse. She had been his first. Everyday, he would press huge wads of practically useless bills into her hand in trade for a carnation. They reminded him of Amestris, the carnations. There seemed to be no overlap between Amestris and this Germany, but he remembered his mother having bouquets of carnations on the kitchen table. The flower seemed like an anchor, and for a short period of time, that flower girl became one as well. She reminded Edward that there still parts of him that could feel something. He was not all wooden and waxy false flesh.

It had been _years_ since he'd even touched a woman. And now Winry…

_Goddamn, motherfucking, son of a bitch harness_. Edward squirmed and felt vastly sorry for himself.

Just as he was preparing to yell up to Russell that they really should regroup and make a new plan, Edward felt his toes touch something. As he was lowered further, his heels came down on the uneven, stone floor. Suddenly, the upward pressure eased on his harness, and Edward blew out a damp breath.

"That's good," Edward called to Russell.

"You have plenty of slack up here," Russell's voice echoed through the dark cavern. "Don't forget to lodge the chockstones!"

Edward shrugged out of his backpack and lowered it to the floor. He fumbled blindly for the zipper on the back, and then fished out the oil lamp Russell had packed. In his back pocket, Edward had matches, and he lit one quickly. The wet darkness seemed to be pressing in harder and harder with each moment, getting into the air, into Edward's lungs. He did not feel panicky, simply determined that a lit lamp would make things so much better.

Once the lantern was glowing and Edward had set the wick to a good length, he stood up straight and cast light around the cavern.

The space he had entered was a narrow hall, about three feet wide. From where he was standing, Edward could see the crack in the wall through which he had entered about twenty feet above him. Edward raised the lantern and squinted into the wet blackness over head. The light rose like a mist and got caught on the crests of a sea of stalactites, each tipped with diamond-like water drops. Around him, closer than the distant rushing of a river, the tiny _plink-plink_ of droplets hitting stone echoed hollowly, like the lonely, little call of a sightless bird.

To the right, Edward watched the lamplight cast down the smooth stone hall as the walls grew closer until the met a few yards back in a jagged seam. Edward turned to the left and held the lamp high. The hall continued back and turned a rounded corner. The sound of the river came from this way, and Edward knew this was his goal.

"What do you see?" Russell's voice called from aloft.

Edward stooped and set his lantern down by his pack. "It's like a hall," Edward replied as he dug around in his pack.

"Is there red water down there?"

From the bag, Edward pulled out a starched mask that covered the nose and mouth. "Not in here," Edward said. "I can hear it, though. I'm going to look around."

Russell was silent for a moment. "Do you have your mask?"

Edward held the mask across his knees for a moment, looking at the rigid crease down the center of it. "Three steps ahead of you," Edward called back before lifting the fabric to his face. He knotted the ties at the base of his skull, below the strap he used to tie back his hair.

x

x

x

Winry flipped through the day calendar on the end table next to the couch. Each page was titled in bold with the day and date, the top one representing today, the first Thursday of what was shaping up to be a chilly April. Winry thumbed through the days, counting the pages until April eleventh. Edward's birthday. She wondered if he would be back in time.

Off to her right, a cozy hallway led away from the waiting room and toward the office.

Winry checked her watch. It was 5:10. Alphonse was late.

The waiting room was not altogether unpleasant. Obviously, the doctor had done his best the make the place feel homey. The walls were a muted sort of blue, like a sky through plumes of smoke. The trimmings were all white: white molding, white window panes, white door frames. Winry rested her elbow against the floral-printed arm of the couch and set her chin in her hand. There was another couch in the room, directly across from her. A furnace, now burning low, leaked some degree of heat into the space, and Winry inched her feet a little closer to the grate.

Seated in the couch across from her was an uncomfortable-looking woman. Older, a little doughy, and in an unflattering paisley dress that pinched her neck a little. She, too, checked the watch pinned to the front of her dress and sighed. Winry watched the woman's short-fingered, plumb hands as they fidgeted around in her thin, white gloves. How impractical dainty gloves are, Winry thought. She snuck a glance at her own grubby hands. Black crescents of grease clung to her nails, and the grooves in her fingertips were etched in with dirt, making the patterns appear deep and smooth. A flicker of self-consciousness passed over Winry's face, not because of the woman with whom she shared the room but because of Edward, who was far away and certainly could not see her now. Had she left fingerprints on him, on his wrist where she had touched him?

Winry pushed that thought away, pushed her heart down from her throat. Getting flustered would not do anyone any good. She focused, instead, on picking at a thread that stuck out from a seam in the couch upholstery.

Winry did not necessarily have the usual stigma against psychiatrists that many people had. She certainly did not feel the sort of animosity that she knew Edward felt. She did wonder, though, what these doctors did. Winry had held bands of ligaments in her hands. She had cradled the frayed end of a freshly amputated thigh. She had run her thumb over the grooves in the end of a man's humerus where it stuck out as though searching for the absent bumps of an ulna that had been chewed up and abandoned by a lightning-fast newspaper press across town. That was Winry's business; what did a psychiatrist hold in his hands when he helped people?

A door creaked open, and two voices flooded into the silent waiting room. Winry listened to Alphonse and the doctor emerging from an office down the hall.

Alphonse came around the corner in the hall first, followed by a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and a deeply-lined face. He was tall with a bristly mustache and an overwhelmingly paternal presence. No wonder Alphonse liked him.

Winry jumped to her feet when Alphonse's eyes fell on her.

"Surprise," Winry said. Alphonse's face split into a grin.

x

x

"Your timing was great, you know," Al explained as he watched the storefronts pass the car window.

"How's that?" Winry asked, bringing the car to a stop at a red light.

"I'd missed the five o'clock train when my appointment ran over," Al explained. "I wasn't looking forward to walking home."

"Well, good thing I was there," Winry replied. "I was kind of curious about this Dr. Lawson guy. He seems nice."

"I like him."

The car became quiet for a moment save the engine's rumbles as Winry shifted from first to second gear.

"Is it working?" Winry asked, knowing that there was no graceful way to ask, no good preamble for a question like that.

Al slid his arm off the rest on the car door. His hands settled in between his thighs. "I'm not sure. I think it might take a long time to see if it helps," he answered. "It's not instantaneous like an automail installation."

Winry snorted. "I'm _still_ waiting to see if I've made Edward's life any better."

Without hesitating, Alphonse replied, "I think you make his life a lot better."

x

x

x

With every extension of his arm, Edward's shoulder creaked a misaligned, metallic sort of creak. He winced but continued forward until he felt a solid, distinct tug at the line tied to his harness. He paused a moment, letting his elbows unbend to take the strain out of his muscles. There is was again, a strong tug at the line. Russell was calling him back.

Edward groaned through his scratchy mask. At that moment, he was almost two-thirds of the way down a tunnel of stone, the bottom of which was flooded with fast-flowing, noisome-smelling red water. Hundreds of thousands of gallons of red water. It rushed a few feet below where Edward clung to the rock face, and the depth of the flow was impossible to determine from where Edward hung.

The ledge along the river had thinned and disappeared into the rock about one hundred feet back, and since then, Edward bouldered his way down the tunnel. The light from the lamp clipped with a carabiner to his harness swung in and out with Edward's movements, and when the lamp tilted toward the opening at the end of the tunnel, Edward could make out a much larger cavern ahead. Where the tunnel widened up ahead, the river seemed to drop off, probably into a pool in the cavern.

Edward's arms and legs seared. He could feel coils of muscle in his back screaming. Considering that he moved unbearably slow while traversing the rock wall, Edward thought, this was the most pain for the least distance he had ever endured. But he was so close to the opening.

Edward glanced down at the knotted line in his harness. He looked up toward his goal, the mouth of the tunnel. He looked back down at his harness.

"Oh, fuck," he muttered. Russell could wait a little longer, Edward resolved and reached with his left foot for the next toehold.

In a few feet, Edward felt the line tug again and then again in another two feet. This last tug was enough to dislodge one of his feet, and the other foot followed. For one stomach seizing moment, Edward dangled by his fingers over the red rapids below him. With a long groan, Edward pulled himself up and slammed his metal toe into the nearest crack he could find.

Once his weight was distributed, Edward leaned his forehead against the cool, dewy stone and caught his breath. He thought for a moment of Fletcher, now almost an invalid after a few years of red water exposure. A memory flashed through Edward's mind of Fletcher as a little boy, curled up on the floor like a fetus in a pool of bright, noxious amniotic fluid.

Edward clenched his jaw and willed his focus to return. He closed his ears to the deafening crash of water beneath him and averted his eyes from the swinging light that made the cavescape seem to swim sickeningly. He brought his mind into his shoulders, his hips, where his muscles burned.

The tunnel narrowed abruptly as Edward neared the mouth. He could see into the adjacent gallery where the light of his lantern did not quite reach the far wall. The space seemed huge, but he could not crane his head the right way over his shoulder to see where the red water went once in the gallery. He began to inch forward but paused. Edward adroitly reached behind him to the rack of anchored carabineers he had slung over his shoulder. This was, perhaps, the thirtieth anchor he had put into the stone, and his fingers seemed to know what to do. He unclipped the anchor from the strap on his back and clipped it onto the line near his harness. After a moment to focus and steady himself, Edward pulled the triggers on the anchor back which, in turn, pulled in the wings of the bolt on the opposite end of the carabineer. With as much strength as he could muster, Edward thrust the anchor into the stone and released the triggers. In the crack in the rock, the bolt opened, widening to fill the crack and wedge the anchor in hard.

Edward blew out a breath that he did not realize he was holding. Steeling himself once more, Edward began to inch along the wall, his metal shoulder creaking close enough to his ear from him to hear over the roar of the river below.

As he came around the narrow part of the tunnel, the line tugged once, twice, and stopped. Edward managed to free a hand and, looking back at the line trailing back into the darkness, he gave the line one hard jerk as though to tell Russell that he needed another minute. When he released the line, it fell slack from his harness.

He waited a moment, watching the line, and just as Edward turned back to the gallery, just as he unclipped his lantern and hoisted it high, just as he looked down and whispered "_Holy shit_," at what he saw, the line tugged again hard and held taut.

With only one hand on the rock face, Edward lost his balance and his precarious footing. The lantern flew from his hand as he was jerked back, his front slammed into the rock where the line was clipped in the anchor. The descent seemed slow to Edward, and he watched the lantern fly away, over the crest of the falls, and down and down and down over the nearly two hundred feet of sheer drop.

Edward dangled from the last anchor he had put in the wall and watched his source of light fall away and away until it was gone, and he was left in the tangible darkness, alone with the red water.


	7. Xenotime, Part II

**A/N:** Hey, guess what happens in this chapter! Ed actually uses alchemy. Thanks, y'all.

**VII. Xenotime, Part II**

The ice in Edward's tumbler clinked as he lowered it from his lips. Through the remaining amber finger of Wild Turkey, the glass sides of the tumbler, and the gaps between Edward's flesh fingers, the ebbing and flowing firelight from the hearth passed. Fletcher's fiancée, Sophia, clanked and sizzled in the kitchen, making dinner for herself and three men.

"How you feeling?" Russell asked as he walked from the foyer to the parlor where Edward reclined on the couch.

Edward looked down at himself and laughed. He felt and looked rather like shit, he thought, and he imagined Russell could tell. Edward sat in a borrowed bathrobe, his right foot soaking in a galvanized steel tub filled with the steaming water and Epsom salts. He had a smattering of bandages pressed to various wounds on the right side of his face, which he had cracked _hard_ against the wall of the stone tunnel when he had lost the lantern underground. The right shoulder of the bathrobe hung by Edward's waist, revealing his aching metal joint. Sophia had draped a thick washcloth soaked in hot water over Edward's shoulder, and he hadn't the heart to tell her that a home remedy designed to increase circulation to an injury wouldn't fix his automail. In fact, Edward had been thinking about—and dreading—that phone call to Winry in which he would explain to her that he had broken himself again, that he had continued using his shoulder after it was broken, that he had no intention of rushing home for repairs.

As his right eyelid swelled closer and closer to his bruised cheek, Edward looked up at Russell. "The whiskey helps," Edward grumbled.

Russell chuckled. "I take it then that you're not up for going back tomorrow."

Edward took another draw from his drink. "Oh, I'll go back," he replied. He switched his narrowed gaze sharply to Russell. "But next time _you_ wear the harness, and _I_ hold the rope."

That hit a nerve, Edward could see. Russell had been shocked when Edward had come up from the cave bleeding from his face and cradling his right arm. Russell had had a foot or so of rope left in his hands, he had explained, and if Edward had continued further into the cave, Russell would have been forced to drop the line.

Russell folded his arms. "Look—"

Edward passed his drink to his other hand and held up his left palm. "Relax," he said. "I was joking." Russell did not look particularly assuaged, but he stopped talking. "Anyway, I think we're past the spelunking stage."

"How do you suggest we get into the gallery?" Russell asked a little tightly.

Edward clapped his hands together gingerly—even small motions sent bolts of pain through his shoulder—and touched his left finger to the surface of the water in which his foot soaked. There was a small flash of light and a puff of salty steam rose from the tub.

"The old fashioned way," Edward said with a sigh.

x

x

x

The next morning, Edward and Russell packed pickaxes, carabineers, harnesses, and ropes. Just in case.

The heat from the day before had ushered in round, steel-bottom clouds that morning, and the climb up the mountain to their destination was made that much easier by the cool air. Edward's body protested as they climbed up and up, but the feeling of exhausted muscles was one Edward had once savored. It had been a long time since he had felt so well-applied to a project, like he was giving it his all. His mind was focused, zeroed in on the ordeal at hand, and his body felt similar, like he had something to dedicate himself to, something bigger and more important than any path he had put himself on in years.

The air felt heavy and damp and promised a rainstorm by lunch, but this was larger than the weather.

They passed the turn off for the entrance they had shaped the day before and kept to the path as it curved around the mountainside. The drop off to the right grew sharper and farther as they progressed, and Edward and Russell found themselves hugging the rock face even harder than they had previously. The path began to slope downwards as they went, and Edward visualized his movements within the mountain. He tried to imagine where they were in relation to the cave, and when they had moved far enough by Edward's judgment, Edward told Russell to stop.

"Can you hear the red water?" Russell asked, pressing his ear to the rock.

"No," Edward said, "But there's an easy way to find out if it's there."

Both Russell and Edward set down their packs on the narrow pathway. Edward felt his shoulder creaking at the motion, but he kept it off his face.

Turning to face the rock full on, Edward clapped his hands. The motion sent a thread of pain up his arm and into his shoulder before giving way to the shivery, galvanizing sensation of alchemy. He put his hands to the stone with the intention of putting in one, small crack.

As soon as the rock had shifted under his hands, Edward felt the rumble of release.

"Look out," Edward managed succinctly and ducked down just as a small, pressurized jet of red water sprung out, shooting over his head. Russell jumped back.

"Ed!" Russell snapped, glaring at Edward who remained crouched down and out of the trajectory of the stream. "Be careful, will you?"

Edward gave him an apologetic grin. "Oops," he said sheepishly before clapping his hands and resealing the leak. He stood up and put a hand to the stone. "I think that," he began before turning to Russell, who was looking down and rubbing his eyes in exasperation. "What?" Edward grumbled.

"Nothing," Russell replied, a hand to his face. "Nothing at all."

Edward frowned and turned back to the mountain. "I think this is a good enough spot, but we need to get in higher."

"Higher?" Russell asked, looking up at the featureless mountainside to their left.

Edward replied, "Yeah. I think where we are right now is below the waterline in the gallery. If we can get high enough, we should be able to get in."

Russell cracked a smile. "Good thing I brought the climbing gear."

Edward's face dropped. He was, of course, the only person who could put a hole in the rock that high up—the rock face was far too uneven to allow for drawing a circle. Ed blew out a long sigh. "Give me the harness," he conceded, head dropped.

x

x

x

Edward clung to the rock, a few yards above Russell, who stood below him, rope wrapped around his waist and arm in a way that would stop the rope from slipping if Ed fell. Ed set an anchor in a crevice in the stone and hammered it in with his closed, metal fist. Once the anchor was set, Edward clipped his rope into it and set to work opening a crack in the rock once more.

This time, Edward clapped his hands together and set them on the rock away from his face. He focused and listened for the push of liquid within, but the crack he produced released nothing but icy air and the roar of water.

"Yes!" Edward said, punching the air victoriously. "We're in!"

"Great," Russell intoned. "I'll be right up."

Edward opened the crack before him more and more, careful to take his time and gauge the level of red water within. Soon, he was feeling the cool, damp air of the cavern on his face and hearing the roar of distant, agitated red water. Edward reached behind him for the face mask he had stuffed into the back pocket of his pants. Once ready with his mask tightly secured, Edward used his alchemy to open the crack a last time. The hole was big enough for a man to slip through, and Edward began to arduous process of inserting his lower half into the hole. With his front pressed to the rock, Edward found it was a matter of getting his chest just slightly higher than the hole and getting his foot in.

He reached with his right foot and set his toes firmly on the lip of the crack he had created. Then, pulling himself up the rock with his arms, Edward brought his other foot up. Soon, he was holding his top half hard to the stone and negotiating his legs into the opening.

Once he was sitting on the lip of the crack, Edward looked down at Russell, who was arranging a second harness around his hips.

"I'm going in," Edward called down, his voice muffled by his mask. Russell looked up and waved in confirmation.

Slipping through the opening was a quick motion, with Edward gripping the mountain face and pushing his legs into the darkness. As he scooted back, Edward readjusted his grip until his body was inside, his feet were lodged in holds on the inner wall, and his hands held ridges along the opening into the cavern. Gritting his teeth, Edward released the rock with his right hand and held all his weight with his left. He reached to his back pocket once more and produced a flare.

Edward slammed the end of the flare against the rock, sparking it to life. The crackling buzz of the flare was lost in the thundering of moving water.

He held the flare high and looked down. Edward's eyes opened wide.

Perhaps ten feet below him, a churning pool of red water ground away at its rock basin. "_Holy hell,_" Edward breathed at the sight. The cavern was, perhaps, three hundred feet across and high enough that the light from Edward's flare only licked at the jagged stalactites.

Setting his flare back up into the crack through which he had entered, Edward pulled his torso back into the hole. When his center of balance was far enough into the hole that he could release the rock, Edward clapped his hands and put them to the mountain. He heard alchemy crackling and stone shifting beneath him, and when Edward pushed himself back out of the hole, he dropped to a catwalk that had emerged from the cavern wall and circled the basin.

The red water was now about six feet beneath his feet, and Edward willed himself to be comfortable with that. Off to his left, Edward saw the misty shape of the waterfall he had teetered at the top of just the day before. The flare, still in the entrance overhead, burned orange-red.

"Russell," Edward called, cupping his hands around his mouth.

A head poked through the crack in the wall. "What?" Russell asked, his mask fitted tightly.

"One hell of a caver you would make," Edward shouted over the noise as Russell pushed himself in and scrambled down to the walkway.

"What does that mean?" Russell shouted back, his eyes narrowing.

"You enter any old hole headfirst?" Edward chastised. He heard Russell chuckle from behind his mask. "What?"

"You kiss your mother with that mouth?"

Edward felt his face heat up, and he scowled to cover his embarrassment. "Not for a really long time. Thanks for bringing it up."

Russell's shoulders rose a little. "Oh, sorry," he called and amended, "You kiss Winry with—"

Edward spun around to face the cavern. "Did we come here to do something important or just dick around? I can't remember."

"All right, all right," Russell conceded, laughter still low in his voice. Using the last light of the flare above them, Russell dropped his pack to the stone floor and fished out a lantern and a box of matches. With the lantern glowing, Russell raised it high. "How much of it is there?"

"A hundred thousand gallons?" Edward offered. "Maybe more. Do we have any way to get a sounding?"

"After you," Russell shouted, gesturing with his free hand toward the roiling body below them.

They began walking around the path Edward had created, Russell in the lead with the lantern. The cavern was almost perfectly circular with smooth, worn walls. Edward traced his flesh hand over the stone, feeling the grooves and concavities made by moving water.

"Looks like the waterline used to be a lot higher," Edward noted. Russell looked back at him, and Edward pointed up. Russell held up the lamp, casting a yellow glow up the wall. Above them, the wall curved inward like the inside of a dome. There was a sharp ridge in the wall, maybe five feet up, that was entirely straight and level and continued along the wall as far as the light could show them. "You see that line, there? I think that's the highest level the red water has reached."

"Well, where the hell is the red water going?" Russell asked, his eyes following the ridge.

"It must be draining out somewhere below the surface. Into a second cavern, maybe."

"Or a spring," Russell said, his voice as dark as the ceiling above them. "Let's keep walking."

After walking farther, Edward stopped and pointed down. "Turn the light on the red water. I want to see something." Russell complied, and Edward dropped to one knee at the edge of the walkway. "Look at this," he instructed, and Russell followed. "You can see all along this edge," he pointed back in the direction they had come, "the wave pattern in the red water is circular, an uninterrupted flow. But here," Edward pointed below them, "something is changing that. Do you see the way it seems to pool?"

Russell squinted into the dark. The waves in the red water did seem to hit something there. Just below them, the waves curled inward, away from the wall. They seemed to eddy into a smaller, tighter whorl. "It's like a drain in a tub," Russell offered.

"Exactly," Edward said. He stood up. "I think the water is emptying out. From where we came in, what direction is this?"

Russell thought for a moment. "West, I think."

Edward put his hand to his mouth in thought.

"I think I know our next step," Edward said.

x

x

x

For the next week, Edward and Russell made the trek up to their entrance to the cavern. Each trip required reopening the hold—Edward sealed it behind them every time—and while the effort was taking its toll on Edward and his malfunctioning shoulder, he made it every morning. Together, he and Russell would crawl back into the gallery and record statistics. Quickly, they noticed a progressive drop in the level of the red water in the cavern. Even with the towering waterfall pouring more red water in by the second, it was draining out faster than it could refill. Twice daily, as well, Russell collected samples of the red water.

"Something's syphoning it," Edward said one particular morning, eight days after his arrival. They stood on the pathway Edward had erected around the cavern, the red water now lapping farther below them than it had a week prior.

"I've been thinking that," Russell said. "How else could the red water be draining this fast? It certainly must have been draining at a steady rate before if it were at a single level long enough to eat that ridge in the wall, but now it's pouring out much faster."

"I get the feeling that—"

A loud crack cut off Edward. He had enough time to make eye contact with Russell—they exchanged an apprehensive glance for just a moment—before the rock under their feet gave way. Russell jumped back far enough to land in a pile on a part of the walkway still intact.

Edward was not so fortunate.

As his footing broke away from the wall, Edward flung himself forward. His ribs hit the lip of the fresh gap in the walk hard, and he scrabbled for a handhold in the stone. He found none, though, and slipped down into the gap and toward the angry red water below him. Desperately, Edward clawed at the stone. He closed his flesh fingers around a small crest in the rock and held tight.

"Edward!" Russell shouted and lurched forward. He knelt at the lip of the gap. Edward passed Russell his metal hand, and Russell seized it. Together, they pulled Edward up until he could get the walk under his arms.

A second crack sounded, deafening over the roaring water, and another section of the walk gave out. Russell managed to back up once more, avoiding the crumbling lip. He held tight to Edward's right hand. The rock Edward had been gripping fell away and hit the red water below with a great splash before sinking below the surface. Edward swung forward, and his cheek collided with the remaining rock of the walkway. Russell held his hand with both of his own as Edward's full weight fell. With nothing but Russell's grip on his metal arm, Edward felt the impact in his shoulder, and he could not contain it when he cried out in pain. As he swung for a long, terrifying moment, Edward could feel metal fatiguing and bending out of shape, could feel cords and pulleys yanked from their settings, could hear in his right ear the screaming grind of steel scraping steel.

With a grunt and a whole lot of effort, Russell dragged Edward upwards. When he had Edward's shoulders up onto the walk, Russell saw that he was not working to pull himself up. Russell snatched at Edward's shirt and hauled him onto the walkway.

Once Edward was no longer dangling over the red water, he brought his knees up under him. He bowed forward, forehead pressed to the stone, and gripped his shoulder where his arm hung, dangling by cords. Edward clenched his jaw and keened through his teeth.

"We have to get the hell out of here," Russell said, putting a hand on Edward's back. When Edward did not respond, Russell added, "_Now_, Edward!"

Edward nodded against the rock, his head swimming and his eyes blind.

Russell dragged Edward down the walk until they were under the hole, greyish sunlight leaking through. He set Edward down on the ground.

"You can't climb," Russell said.

"No," Edward gasped as images of the first arm he had lost flashed through his delirious mind. Purple lights. So much screaming.

Russell made quick work of tying a line to Edward's harness and closing Edward's good hand around the line. He instructed him to hold onto to keep his center of balance oriented correctly before tying his own line and clambering up the wall. Russell shoved himself through the crack as fast as he could, climbed part way down, and dropped the remaining distance to the path up the side of the mountain. The sky overhead promised rain, but Russell hardily noticed.

Russell seized the line Edward was tied to and began hauling him up, hand over impossible hand. Russell clenched his teeth as he willed himself to keep pulling. He could feel his arms straining and trembling, pushed toward the brink of failure. He kept pulling, though, wondering when the hell he would see Edward emerge.

Edward's left hand flopped out of the hole first. Russell released the line with a long sigh. With his good hand, Edward pulled himself to the edge of the hole.

"How the hell am I going to get you down?" Russell asked, still panting a little.

He saw Edward shake his head. "Falling," Edward managed before he shoved himself out of the hole and tumbled down the rock face. The impact on the path below was so hard, so jarring that Edward let out a long breath and allowed himself to slip quietly, peacefully out of consciousness.

x

x

x

Before the pain, before the blurry ceiling, before the smell of dinner, Edward heard Russell on the telephone in the next room.

"...as soon as he can travel," Edward willed his mind to understand. "Uh-huh. Yes. No, I gave him some morphine."

Edward raised his eyebrows. _Hello, morphine_, he thought, knowing that he recognized that odd, floating sensation in which he could only distantly feel anything below his neck, as though his body was far, far away and the gap was making all the signals a little bit hazy. His father had hopped him up on the stuff before installing his pathetic version of automail.

"I know," Russell said. His voice dropped lower, so low Edward could only make out the words because he knew they were coming. "And, I'm sorry. This wasn't suppo—what? No, no, I'll take care of it. All right. Yes. Bye, Winry. And thanks."

The phone clicked as it nested in the receiver. Edward heard Russell give a long, difficult sigh. His shuffling footfalls began, drawing nearer. The swinging door that separated the kitchen from the parlor where Edward was, recumbent on the couch, squeaked open. Russell came in and soon entered Edward's field of vision.

"Oh, you're awake," Russell said, his eyes empty of any kind of excitement.

"And I am _tanked,_" Edward replied, his tongue like a slab of clay in his mouth.

Russell chuckled. "Yeah, I gave you—"

"Morphine, I know," Edward slurred. "I heard you on the phone." Russell sank to an arm chair near Edward's feet. He dangled his hands between his knees and watched Ed. "Is she pissed?" Edward asked. "I bet she's pissed."

"Maybe she will be," Russell said and rubbed his eyes. "She was crying on the phone, though. I don't think the pissed will come until you're home." He dropped his head forward and let it hang from his neck.

"She was crying?" Edward asked, lifting his head a little. He felt a shock of guilt run through him, and he dropped back to his pillow. "Great." Edward paused. "Wait. What? What about home?"

Russell looked up. "You think you're staying here? Who the hell is supposed to put your arm back on? It tore out below the socket. I couldn't reinstall it if I wanted to."

Edward lolled his head to the right and looked down at himself. His arm lay next to him on the couch. He could see the two black cords that had once worked as biceps and triceps. They were now the only things keeping his arm attached.

"Well, fuck," was all Edward had to say.

Russell laughed a mirthless laugh. "Go back to sleep, Ed. I'll wake you up before I put you on a train."

Edward considered struggling to remain conscious, but the appeal wore through quickly. He let his eyes slide closed, and he was gone.

x

x

x

Winry set the phone back on the hook and put her hand to her eyes.

Alphonse looked up from his plate of tuna casserole when he heard Winry sniffing. He jumped to his feet and came up next to her. Alphonse placed a hand on her arm and asked, "Winry, what's wrong?"

She sniffed again and looked up. "There's been an accident."

x

x

x

Another week passed, punctuated by daily visits from a doctor Russell had hired. The worst of Edward's injuries, the damage to his automail, was left for Winry's reparative hand. The rest of it—lesions on his hands needing bandaging, a gash through his eyebrow needing suturing, and a concussion needing nursing—the doctor did his best with. With his automail arm resting in a sling and bandaged back into a position where it would not put pressure on his shoulder, Edward was eventually able to get up and move around the house of his own accord. While he still looked like an Ishbal Rebellion veteran, he was mobile now. The prospect of sitting on a bumpy train for hour after hour did not appeal to Edward, but it was a necessary hardship if he wanted his arm back. He was starting to get used to having Fletcher's fiancee wait on him, though. Sophia had a very effective bedside manner. And Edward would have had to hit his head _very _hard to ignore that she was quite easy on the eyes.

When Russell noticed Fletcher noticing Edward noticing Sophia—no matter how noncommittally Edward was noticing her, Sophia appeared to be noticing him back—Russell thought perhaps Edward was well enough to travel. Without delay, he went about alerting Winry of Edward's schedule and packing things to take back to Central.

Russell loaded a crate full of well-packaged bottles full of red water, each labeled with the day and time of collection, into the trunk of a cab along with Edward's luggage.

"I don't have the facilities here," Russell said after he closed the trunk, "To study these samples like they need to be studied."

"What makes you think I do?" Edward asked.

"AARDI watches me like a hawk, Ed. At least you have a boss who would back you up if something happened," Russell explained.

Ed rolled his eyes. "Yeah, Mustang," he drawled, "He's always got my back."

"Regardless," Russell said, the pressure of train schedule creeping into his voice. "Expect to see me out your way with more samples."

"When?"

"Soon," Russell replied. He opened the taxi door for Edward. "Travel safe, Ed," he said and closed the door.

x

x

x

Winry got the call on Saturday morning that Edward would be returning to Central on Wednesday. After hanging up the phone, Winry took a moment to let the waves of relief wash through her. The horror scenarios she had been generating in her mind crumbled back to nothing, and she allowed herself the little generosity of a long sigh.

Once she felt her stomach and pulse settle, Winry remembered something that made her grin to herself. She checked the calender she kept by her phone just to be sure. And there it was. Winry knew something that Edward—probably—didn't know. Monday was his birthday.

She immediately called Alphonse at home. He picked up on the fourth ring, and Winry stood in her kitchen, dancing through all of the first three.

"Hello," Alphonse said, sounding a little bleary. It was, after all, one of his few days off. The boy was entitled to some mornings of leisure.

Winry sliced through his sleepiness like a knife when she said, "Edward is okay."

A spark lit up Alphonse's voice when he asked, "Really? Is he coming home?"

"Yes, on Wednesday. I'm going to call the office right now and let them know. You don't have anything planned that night, do you?"

Alphonse scoffed. "Nothing that can't be moved."

"Good," Winry said, grinning into the phone.


	8. Home

**A/N: **Thanks, y'all.

**VIII. Home**

Wednesday rolled through the city warm and humid like a tide seeping into the sand. Central seemed braced for rain all day, but it didn't come and it didn't come. The trees planted in mediums and municipal lots waited, their leaves upturned and ready for the low clouds overhead to burst a seam.

The weighty sky seemed only to add pressure to Winry, who was learning just how difficult it is to coordinate a surprise party with fifteen soldiers. Worse than the soldiers were the alchemists, who were used to being able to manipulate their environment to meet their needs. Winry never expected to have such a candid phone conversation with General Mustang, but she knew that he was almost as necessary for this party as Edward was. Perhaps it was that necessity that kept her squarely planted in the now, in the few hours before Edward's arrival, in the phone call in which Mustang asked if he could show up late with a date. Winry said no.

Alphonse painstakingly painted a banner to hang over the entrance to the parlor. When Winry took the banner from him and tacked it to the wall using a hammer and nails, Alphonse cried out and ran toward with his hands out.

"What?" Winry asked, pinching a nail in her lips.

Alphonse looked appalled. "What are you doing?" he asked, gesturing to the new, ragged holes Winry was pounding in the drywall.

Winry looked at her hands, which were holding the nail in the place and the hammer poised, then down at herself, standing on a chair, and then back toward her hands. "Is this a trick question?"

Alphonse let his shoulders slump and shuffled back toward the kitchen where he was preparing a veritable acre of deviled eggs.

Winry checked the clock in Edward's hallway. Russell had said Edward's train would be arriving at three in the afternoon. It was now almost two-thirty.

The Double-A office arrived en masse, minus Jean Havoc and plus Amity Havoc, who was pregnant enough to count for one and a half people. Winry had never met Mrs. Havoc, and it had been ages since she had last seen Maria Ross. They had come in one car, which they parked down the street as per Winry's instructions.

Winry greeted them at the door and ushered them inside, peeking her head out and looking around just to make sure there were no outward signs of a party. When the front porch passed the test, Winry closed the door behind them. She passed Mustang without a glance, and Ross and Winry exchanged a hug after she had shaken Amity Havoc's hand and shown her to a comfortable seat.

Mrs. Havoc was a small, polite woman. She looked to be, perhaps, a few years Winry's elder with big hazel eyes and hair the color of fruitwood, which she kept in a neat bob. Perhaps it was her diminutive frame and pale, heart-shaped face that made her eyes, thickly fringed with light, brown lashes, appear so big and deep. She was a pretty woman, Winry thought, and she imagined Amity and Jean made a funny couple: Jean was tall and broad while Amity was petite save her round belly. She wore a cream-colored, sleeveless sundress that hung about her slender knees with a pale blue sash cinched under her small chest.

Winry quickly excused herself from the parlor, blaming a dish that she wasn't actually cooking. Once she was decidedly in the kitchen, Amity Havoc turned to Mustang and said, "She didn't shake your hand."Amity clearly thought there was some history between them that would keep Winry cool and distant, and Mustang judged by the glint in Amity's eye that she was thinking of the entirely wrong sort of history.

He smiled, but it didn't reach his eye. "Miss Rockbell and I are not that manner of friends."

Amity nodded. "I see."

She certainly did not see, but Mustang was in no mood to correct her. He could not imagine, in fact, any mood in which he might voluntarily bring up his history with the name Rockbell.

Perhaps a drunk mood? Or just a masochistic one?

Mustang looked around him. What the hell did he think he was doing sitting on couch at a party hosted by Winry Rockbell? The girl came out of the kitchen and into the hallway. She opened the door to a closet by the front door, and her top half disappeared within. A moment later, she emerged, dragging a card table out of a rustling wall of coats. Winry propped the first table against the wall and then dove for another.

Mustang watched her moving. He pictured her carrying the tables by herself. Certainly she was capable, that was not the question. The question was, however, how much of a coward would he have to be to make the girl carry both tables?

He stood up and came up behind Winry. "I'll get those," he said, sliding both tables out of her hands. To his horror, he felt the fingers of his right hand brush Winry's knuckles. An error in depth perception.

"Oh," she said as he took them from her. Winry was rather too surprised by his sudden proximity to argue very hard. "Uh, okay. I can get them on my own."

Mustang was already unfolding the legs on one table when he replied, "It's not a matter of your ability."

Winry was not certain how to respond to that, but she felt her face pinking.

"Oh, chivalry," Ross said, her voice high and bright, "You live on!"

"And your mascot," Amity chirped in. She gestured an open palm toward Mustang, "Brigadier General Roy Mustang. Don't you think, Miss Rockbell?" Amity asked, turning a poorly-placed, mischievous smile at Winry.

Winry felt two pairs of eyes turn on her. Ross looked rather like she was watching two automobiles barreling toward each other; Amity grinned away. But Mustang just worked at locking the table legs in place and setting them upright. He kept his single eye down and focused.

Winry felt herself smile, and after a moment, she meant it. "Sure," she replied, her typical bitterness when discussing the subject gone from her voice. She could focus on the matter at hand, she thought. Today was a day to celebrate the one thing that she and the General had in common, and she resolved to let nothing detract from Edward.

Another knock at the door drew Winry out of the parlor, and she had never been so grateful for it than when General Mustang looked up, and their eyes met as a look of something flashed across his face. Was it guilt? Or something quieter, something a little more tender, like apology?

Gracia Hughes and her daughter, Elysia, stood on the porch, wearing light-colored, casual dresses. Elysia withdrew her floppy sunhat from her sandy-blonde head, now almost as high up as Winry's, and gripped it before her. Winry took her hat and hung it by the door. They swapped hugs and apologies for the long separation, and Winry showed them into the parlor. She watched as Elysia bounded for the General, as he put a firm arm around her shoulders and planted a kiss on the top of her head. The pair of Hugheses sat on either side of General Mustang, and Winry felt a breath of relief in her chest.

Soon the hooks by the door were filled with stiff, blue coats. Major Armstrong, Heymans Breda, Denny Bloche, and Vato Fallman arrived together with a message of congratulations from Riza Hawkeye and Cain Fuery, who had been working out of Eastern for the last four months. Scheska arrived with a date, a man only a few inches taller than her with a similar inward demeanor. Dr. Jack Sullivan, Winry's business partner, arrived with his wife and gave Winry a loud kiss on the cheek as she showed them in. Winry had asked guests to bring dishes to share if they felt so inclined, but Winry found herself with almost as many cases of beer in the icebox as there were seats taken in the parlor. When she ran out of room, she began distributing drinks to her guests.

A small herd of Alphonse's friends from school arrived, having crammed all eight of them into the same car. Alphonse came out to greet them but vanished into the kitchen quickly after. Winry announced them, all upperclassmen, to the parlor and then stepped back. There was, perhaps, some tension initially, but then the boys in civvies began to diffuse among the men in blue.

Gracia alerted Winry to the volume of gifts accumulating on the table in the foyer, and together, they began carrying the ones most precariously balanced on top of the pile to the kitchen table.

When Winry returned, Elysia was directing General Mustang in adding some things to the birthday banner over the parlor entrance. Eventually the sign read, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ED!" and beneath it, in the General's neat penmanship "+ Welcome home + feel better."

The clock in the hall began to sound three o'clock. Winry stood before the cramped parlor and explained to everyone the plan. She would sit at the window in the parlor, watching for Havoc and Edward to pull up, which was imminent. When they arrived, she would instruct the room to stand and move away from the windows. She would lock the door before Edward came up so that he would have to open it with his key, alerting them to his approach. Then, when he came in, the party would really start.

As everyone went back to their conversations, the combination of all them creating a roar punctuated by clinking drinks and outbursts of laughter, Winry felt her nerves taking off on all cylinders. Alphonse must have sensed it, as well, because he approached her with an open beer and gave her a warm smile.

"Do you think Edward will like it?" Winry asked.

Alphonse surveyed the room. "How could he not?"

Winry began tearing at the label on her drink. "I don't know. He doesn't like attention, you know?"

"Are you kidding?" Alphonse asked, "Ed loves attention if it's from the right people."

Alphonse then recruited Breda and Elysia to help him carry platters out of the kitchen and set them on the card table, which was beginning to crowd over with empty bottles. Falman and Mrs. Sullivan cleared them away and hid them in the kitchen while Winry settled on the loveseat under the window out onto the porch.

She checked the clock. It was three-thirty. She waited as patiently as she could before checking the clock again. Three-thirty-two. Winry tilted her beer up and drained it down.

She had been listening to Amity Havoc and Gracia Hughes talking mother-business when a motion outside caught Winry's eyes. She looked out and saw a wide, black sedan pull up into the driveway.

"He's here!" Winry shouted, though she had meant to whisper. The thundering of voices died down quickly, and Winry shooed them all back from the windows. She darted toward the front door, flipped the lock, and hurried back into the parlor.

Winry found herself standing between Alphonse and General Mustang, watching the door. She felt like she could feel herself aging while waiting for Edward.

Heavy, lopsided footsteps came up the stairs in hollow _thuds_. They came across the porch, followed by heavier, more even footfalls.

Winry breathed in and held it.

The lock on the door began to turn and click.

She grabbed Alphonse's hand and Mustang's sleeve but did not notice the look Mustang gave her in response.

The door popped open and swung wide. Edward took a single step in.

"_SURPRISE!_" the waiting crowd bellowed and erupted into applause. Major Armstrong, a beat after the chorused welcome, sang out "Edward Elric!" over the thundering partygoers.

Edward looked as though he was going for his sidearm before his eyes fell on the banner, on Alphonse, Winry, and Mustang holding up drinks, on the throng of grinning faces. Havoc had to give Edward a little push to get him inside the door. He set down Edward's luggage and draped an arm around his shoulders.

"Happy birthday, Chief," Havoc said, giving Edward a squeeze and a jostle.

Edward remained motionless, his face frozen, until Alphonse rushed up to him and wrapped him in a firm hug. As the shock settled and his pulse slowed, Edward felt a big, unabashed grin pull on his mouth. He couldn't believe... he'd never expected... Edward was dumbfounded a moment longer until Winry flung herself at him.

"Happy birthday, Ed," she said, her mouth close to his ear so that he could hear her over the clamor of ten or so conversations. "We love you."

Edward put his good arm around her ribs and squeezed back. When Winry withdrew, gave him a purposeful kiss on the hollow of his cheek, and held him out at arm's distance, Edward said accusatorially, "This is _your_ doing, isn't it?"

Winry grinned and thumbed away the tears in her eyes. "Mine and Alphonse's."

"What the hell happened to you?" Mustang asked as he approached from behind Winry. She stepped out of his way. Edward could only produce his left hand, which Mustang accepted. "You look like a refugee, Ed."

He rather did. His black eye had faded to a green smudge. The swelling had gone around the gash above his eye, but it was still a dark, red slice through his brow, punctuated by little, black stitches. His right arm was cradled close to his chest by the sling. He moved with the slightest of limps.

Edward scowled. "So glad you could make it, Mustang," he intoned.

Winry found herself progressively pushed farther and farther away from Edward as he made his way into the parlor and guests lined up to greet him. When she had been shoved to the outskirts of the party, Winry slipped back into the kitchen, where the raucous was muted.

She stood over the heap of presents for Edward, all wrapped with brown paper and string, and plucked her gift for Edward off the top. It was a small box, long and narrow. Winry decided that if she wanted her gift to get the attention it deserved—which is to say, if she wanted to get Edward's attention with her gift—she would need to save it for a little later.

x

x

x

Quickly, Winry and Alphonse began taking turns clearing up empty bottles from the card tables, end tables, and the floor. They refreshed the snacks so frequently that anyone who wanted to talk to them had to do it while walking. Honestly, Winry appreciated the distraction and the purposive quality of it, too. The mob of people in the parlor was overwhelming, and Winry realized a week too late that all she really wanted to do was sit down with Edward and be so, so grateful that he was safe.

Winry had resigned herself to not seeing Edward for the rest of the night, but she willed herself to be happy for him. He was, after all, in a room almost exclusively populated by people who adored him.

Alphonse had just come from the kitchen with another arm load of finger foods—chips, cookies, cut up sandwiches—when Winry told him to take a breather. She collected a stack of plates, dusted with crumbs, and headed for the kitchen sink.

Opening the swinging door between the kitchen and parlor with her back, Winry turned into the kitchen and found Edward standing over his mound of birthday presents. She saw him leaning on the back of a chair, taking the weight off the ankle he had been favoring all night.

"Are you gonna need a new leg, too?" Winry asked as she passed behind him and made her way to the sink, already overflowing with dishes. When her new load looked like it would not fit, she set them on the counter.

Edward chuckled. "I think an overhaul is what I need," he said, a dark humor in his voice.

After dropping her dishes, Winry came up to Edward's left. They stood in companionable quiet and surveyed the loot.

"What am I going to do with all this stuff?" Ed asked, gesturing toward the heap.

"We can only hope that everyone knew you well enough to get you stuff you could use."

"It's probably all candlesticks and snowglobes," he replied. Winry chuckled and sank into a chair at the table. Edward watched her for moment. She looked happy but weary. Her skin was a little grayer than usual. Her hair was falling out of its ponytail high on the crown of her head. "You okay?" he asked.

Winry nodded. "Oh, yeah. I'm fine," she replied.

Edward was quiet for a moment. "You know how good you are at telling when Alphonse and I are lying?" he asked.

Winry looked up. "Yeah."

Edward leaned forward over the chair he was propped up against. "It's mutual," he said forebodingly.

Winry gave him a tired smile. "I really am fine," she said, more convincingly this time. "I'm just overwhelmed."

Edward pulled his chair out and lowered himself gingerly into it. Winry could not help but watch him move, watch winces dance across his brow. He held the back of the chair for support as he sat, and Winry had never seen him quite so beat up. When he was out in the parlor, chatting and laughing, he had not winced, had not looked unsteady for a moment.

"You and me both," Edward replied.

"Are you still hurting?" she asked.

Edward slumped back in his chair. "It's not so bad. I couldn't put up with the morphine anymore, so I've just been grinning and bearing."

Winry snorted. "You don't hear that very much."

Ed shrugged. "The morphine, I was okay with. It was the projectile vomiting that really got old."

Winry cringed and gave him an apologetic laugh. "If you come by the shop tomorrow, I can fit you for a new arm. I can take a look at that leg, too. You're probably due an adjustment."

"I will, thanks," Edward replied. When the quiet between them began to stretch and settle like another person seated at the table, Edward reached over to his gifts. He lifted a small one and shook it by his ear. Something solid inside bumped the sides of the box. "Definitely a bar of soap," he muttered.

"You really scared me, Ed," Winry blurted.

When Ed looked up, she seemed even paler except for the pinking of her nose and the skin around her tired eyes. He felt a hand close around his trachea, the way it always did when he saw Winry crying like that and when he knew that she was crying because of him.

"Everything's okay," Edward said putting up his good hand. "The worst of it is the arm, and that's fixable."

Winry shook her head. "I know that now, but..." she swallowed hard, and Edward watched two tears spill onto her cheeks. "For a week, I didn't know the worst of it. I didn't know if I'd lost something irreplaceable."

At first, he thought she had misspoken. She meant she didn't know if _he'd _lost something irreplaceable, right? When Edward realized that he had heard her correctly, that he was the something, he felt the constriction grow even tighter. He never thought of himself as a particularly empathetic person, but in that moment, with Winry now freely crying in front of him, Edward felt a bolt of something like fear shoot through him. He thought of what it was like to lose Al, to have no idea where he was or how he was, to step back from a situation and understand, viscerally, that there was no part of it he could control. He remembered that guilt and that anger, but mostly, he remembered the paralyzing terror.

"Russell told me about your fall, but he said he couldn't tell me any more. And that was the worst. Realizing that you were so far away and doing something dangerous, and you couldn't even tell me about it." Something like a quiet, barely controlled sob escaped through Winry's clenched teeth. "And I thought to myself that if you died, I wouldn't even know why."

"Winry, I couldn't tell any—"

Winry shook her head. "No, I understand. I'm not upset about that. I'm upset that... I just... I thought..." She looked down and to the side before leveling Edward under a wet, searching stare. "I thought I might lose you."

Edward felt like she'd kicked him in the solar plexus.

"And there was nothing I could do."

Winry bowed her head and pressed the heel of her right hand to her eyes. Edward inched forward in his seat and put a hand on her bicep. He half-expected her to shrug him off, but she seemed to sink into it instead.

"Look, Winry," Edward began as gently as he could.

He was cut off, though, by Winry who, in one swift motion, dropped her hand from her eyes, sat forward in her chair, and pressed her lips to his. This one, unlike her goodbye almost-kiss a couple weeks prior, was unequivocal. Her mouth was squarely planted. He could feel the wetness of her lips. He felt her hand, damp and chilly from her tears, on his face, her fingertips on the arch of his cheekbone.

Edward stared, stunned motionless.

But as she lingered there, patiently awaiting his response, Edward began to feel her breath, smell the earthy air off her skin. And before he was entirely certain what was happening, he could taste the hops from the beer she had drunk, the dill from a deviled egg, the tears that ran into their mouths as he kissed her back. He felt the thrill of touch in his chest, in his stomach, his heart beating faster in his ears, and Edward remembered how pleasant it was to be kissed, how long it had been since anyone had kissed him.

"I was so scared," Winry said when she withdrew and rested her forehead against his. It was a far more tender gesture than Edward had expected.

"I know," he said, the lights dimmed in the part of his brain he dedicated to doubting and self-deprecation. "I'm sorry."

They sat like that for a quiet, secret moment as the talking and laughing raged on outside the door.

A bang startled them, and they both jumped apart and back into their seats. Edward looked up, feeling his face heating up, as Havoc strolled into the kitchen from the parlor. He took a moment to look from Edward to Winry then back to Edward.

He let out a bark of a laugh. "Excuse me," he drawled, putting up his hands and backing out of the door. Once the door swung closed behind him, Edward strained his ears to hear Havoc. He didn't have to try too hard; the conversations died back when Havoc announced, "Looks like the man of the hour is getting an early birthday present in there." The sound of twenty-some-odd people all simultaneously saying_ woo_ rose like a storm before breaking into laughter.

Edward felt his mouth drop open. He glanced at Winry, who was gawking back at him. He watched her entire face burning red.

"You had to get them all drunk, didn't you?" Edward snapped, glaring at Winry.

She looked too mortified to respond to his prod. "I'm gonna be in the crawl space," she said before vaulting out of her chair and dashing out the door, leaving Edward alone with the distant jeering of his friends—and of his boss, Edward thought with horror—and a stockpile of birthday presents. Edward wondered how long he could hide out in the kitchen before someone came to find him.

x

x

x

Edward left his own birthday party to go to bed around ten at night. The rain promised earlier had begun thrumming a quiet percussion against the windows, no heavy, violent drops, simply a persistent arhythmic drumming, like a peacefully pacing upstairs neighbor.

The true diehards had stayed until about ten, as well. Gracia and Eylsia had left much earlier to get some real dinner—trail mix, popcorn, and dipping veggies didn't pass as a meal to Gracia—and Elysia had made a small scene of blushing and looking down and shuffling her feet when Edward showed them to the door. Gracia gave him a long hug and a kiss on the temple, after which Elysia threw her arms around Ed's neck for a blur of a moment and then hurried out.

Soon after, Amity Havoc fell asleep on the couch. A little earlier, a friend of Al's—after Mustang had gone on a liquor store run for Cosmopolitan fixings—had sidled up to Amity and offered her a foot rub. He explained, without noticing Havoc's stink-eye from across the room, that he was on track to be an obstetrician. He generated some manner of justification for slipping Amity's strappy sandals from her thin-boned, slightly swollen feet, something about work experience and his drive to help knocked up women. The exchange ended, eventually, in Amity Havoc snoring little, feminine snores with her little, feminine feet sticking out shoelessly before her.

Winry watched out of the corner of her eye as Havoc woke up his wife. She was bleary and disoriented for a moment before beginning the arduous process of trying to get her shoes back on. It seemed an impossible reach around daunting obstacles until Havoc knelt before her and slipped her tiny shoes back onto her feet. Together, they said their goodbyes and departed.

Sullivan and his wife left shortly after that, with a teasing, "See you in the morning," to both Winry and Edward.

Despite their insistence that they could clown-car it up in a single taxi, Alphonse's classmates left in two cabs, phoned in by Winry after a flash of feminine wiles duped the car key away from the member of the group who had driven. When the driver began to get pushy, Winry made a show of popping his key into her mouth and swallowing it. Once Al's friends were all gone, Winry excused herself and coughed it up into her hand.

Edward, Breda, and General Mustang, who had been chatting nearby, ceased talking abruptly while Winry coughed and gagged. Only when they had been silent for quite some time did Winry notice. She looked over and glared.

"You got something to say?" she growled, holding the slightly damp car key in her right hand.

While a comment on Winry's gag-reflex was on the tip of his tongue, Mustang decided that neither was he on the sort of grounds with her required to say something like that nor was he drunk enough to get away with it. Instead he noted, "That's a useful trick."

Winry scanned all three men, her face just _daring_ them to say something more. "You pick up all kinds of things when you work in Rush Valley," she concluded and walked away.

Slowly, the remaining military personnel left the party until only General Mustang and Maria Ross were left. They insisted on helping clean up, which Winry very much appreciated: Edward, of course, was not expected to do much in his condition, and Alphonse was fading in and out of sleep while collecting bottles from the parlor. By the time they were finished, most of the kitchen counter was occupied by either dishes or bottles, all of which needed rinsing.

Alphonse gave his goodnights as he ascended the stairs, practically sleepwalking to his bed. In the foyer, Winry and Edward stood side by side at the foot of the steps while Mustang and Ross collected uniform coats and overcoats. They both looked rather more official than Winry was anticipating once they were suited up in long, black wool peacoats. Interesting, Winry thought, how easily they could bring it back, switch the military in them back on.

More than with Ross, Winry felt her sentiment toward the General change as she helped him into his uniform coat and overcoat. Earlier, Winry had found herself seated next to him on the couch—both of them a tad inebriated and nursing tall, sweating glasses of water—and he sat so casually, one ankle balanced on the opposite knee and right arm propped up on the armrest, that she felt she was almost interacting with him like a human being. For a few minutes there, they chatted about Edward and how he should look into running for election and how he would need to cut his hair first and how, really, the most successful senators promote their wives to campaign managers.

It was so easy, though. Winry felt the absence of tension in their conversation, like the pressure of their pasts had swelled between them for so long that now, once it was deflating, it left a hole in its place. Winry could see the General over the divide, though, and as she walked him to the door, she realized that all _everything_ aside, he was an okay guy. Most importantly, he was as attached to Edward as she was. And that, in its own way, endeared him to her.

With his uniform back in place, though, Winry felt whatever had been gone during their earlier exchange begin to creep back in. _That's right_, Winry felt in her gut, _the General was once Major Mustang, once in Ishbal, once following orders._

Winry derailed that train before it could leave the station. Then she bombed it and left all the passengers for dead.

She gave Ross a hug, one of those quick, friendly, squeezeless hugs that people exchange when they both enjoy each others' company and know it's really time to go.

While Edward said his goodbyes to Ross, Winry turned toward the General. She stood before him for a moment and willed herself to look at him, right at him, into that one, beetle-black eye he had. She could not tell whether that was a look of reluctance or resignation on his face, but either way, she knew they were thinking the same thing.

Winry smiled at him, took a step closer, and stood on her toes. She put her arms around his neck, felt the wooly scratch of his coat on the undersides of her arms. He was still for a moment, like Winry was hugging a lamppost or, perhaps, a coatrack. Then—and Winry did not anticipate this—she felt his arms loop around her waist. There was some weight in his arms, some pressure on her ribs, not enough to communicate desperation or need. It was enough to say something rather quiet and tender, though. Something like gratitude.

"Thanks for coming out, General," she said quietly, her mouth close to his ear.

"My pleasure," he replied, and Winry could feel his voice rumbling in his chest.

They parted, said their final goodbyes, and then the foyer was populated by only Edward, Winry, and a whole lot of silence and emptiness. The stillness felt so strange, so intense in the wake of all the bustle. Edward blew out a long sigh and sat down on the stairs.

"That was a great party, Winry, but let's never do that again," Edward said, rubbing his eyes with his good hand.

Winry chuckled. "I can agree to that." She leaned her hip against the newel post and wrapped her arm around around the knob at the top. "Do you want to open your presents?"

"What, all _four hundred_ of them?"

"I think it's closer to thirty," she informed him.

"I've got an idea. I'll go sit in the bathtub, and you can pour my gifts over me. That way I can enjoy them one last time before the disillusionment begins."

Smiling, Winry asked in a tired voice, "Do you need anything? Ice pack? Shot of morphine?" _Sponge bath?_ another little voice supplied from a dusty corner in Winry's head.

Edward gave her a dismissive wave and rose to his feet. "Combine 'em," he said. "I'll take my morphine on the rocks."

"Coming right up," Winry replied.

They lingered for a moment, Edward two steps higher than her and leaning against the banister. Winry didn't realize that she had tilted her head up, like she was waiting for a kiss, until the motion was done. She quickly played it off by rolling her head to the side and rubbing her neck.

"Thanks, Winry," he said and then added, "For everything."

Winry felt her face heat up. "I'm glad you're home."

Ed smiled at her and nodded before turning and heading up the stairs.

Once he was gone, Winry headed back toward the kitchen through the parlor. She flicked off light switches and pushed chairs back into place. She gathered up a throw blanket that had fallen off the arm of the couch, refolded it, and set it right. She shoved the loveseat cushions back into the place. In the kitchen, Winry put the chairs at the table right and came to stand before the expanse of dishes and bottles. A part of her tried to picture some variety of alchemy that could do the dishes for her while another part was already resigned.

When fantasizing about cleaning seemed to be as close to actually cleaning as she would get, Winry turned and headed toward the foyer. She paused in the passage and looked back over her shoulder at Edward's gifts, and she remembered the gift she had removed and hid up in the guest bedroom. Winry chewed her lip for a moment then turned off the kitchen light.

Edward clicked the lamp on when he entered his bedroom, the largest bedroom in the house—which he had taken only at Alphonse's insistence. It was the most comfortable space he had had to claim as his own since his very early childhood. Compared to a military bunk, designed to show men how economically they could be stowed or to his cramped apartment in Munich, where his landlord stopped taking the worthless currency and began extracting rent in chores, his room now, with it's polished, dark floors and high, white ceilings seemed about the most decadent thing Edward had ever allowed himself.

Across from the door, a row of windows occupied the top half of the entire wall and looked out toward the south, over the backyard and the neighborhood, which sloped away toward the countryside. The book shelf in Edward's headboard was under those windows, and after changing into pajama pants and an undershirt, Edward propped himself up in his bed and looked over his shoulder at the reading selection for the night. He knew that, in his luggage downstairs, he had his notes from his trip to Xenotime, and, really, he should be reviewing those. But for many reasons, Ed couldn't bring himself to look through his notes. Mostly, he was in his bed now; Xenotime was far away and could be pushed back even further until tomorrow. He decided to give himself a night off and hit the notes hard in the morning.

Instead, he slipped a treatise on elemental alchemy from the shelf. This was a favorite of his, and he had read it, perhaps, twice before. The book was, most notably, Mustang's dissertation for his Ph.D., which he had returned to school for during the two years Edward was away, a fact Mustang so loved to bring up when women strolled by during their evenings at the bar. _So, would you call me General Doctor Mustang or Doctor General Mustang?_

Edward only just cracked the cover when he heard at knock at the door.

"Yeah?" he called, not looking up from his book. A little part of him knew he had a fifty-fifty chance of it being Winry, and while he wouldn't necessary reject her company, he'd been thinking about their exchange in the kitchen. More accurately, he had been willfully _not_ thinking about it.

Winry popped her head in. "Hey, you have a second?" she asked.

Edward refused to look too hard at his mind's reaction to that question: _you only want a second?_

Instead, Edward sat up straight and set his book on the bed next to him. "Sure," he said. He reached his hand behind him and pulled his pillow up.

Winry slipped into the room, holding Edward's birthday present against her lower back. She pause for a moment near the foot of the bed and stood, but it felt too strange, too distant to stand over him like that. At the risk of seeming too forward, Winry sat down on Edward's bed but with some space between them nevertheless. Unlike Edward who had almost succeeded at ignoring the thoughts knock-knock-knocking all night, Winry had been just wallowing in them.

"I know you said you could wait to open your presents," she said and brandished her gift for him, "But I don't think I can wait. Happy birthday, Ed," she concluded, holding out a small box to Edward.

She watched him color a little high in his cheeks. "Thanks," was all he said as he took the box from her. He set it in his lap and looked down at it.

Winry waited for him to tear into it, to see her gift, to know everything she wanted to say to him without her having to say it. And when Edward hesitated, Winry felt her heart drop out of her chest and into her stomach. He was regretting kissing her in the kitchen, wasn't he? He was going to tell her it was better for everyone if they didn't, if she just left, wasn't he? Winry's pulse thundered in her ears. She felt her face heat up with shame, and she tore her eyes away from him.

"Could you, uh," Edward began, "Give me a hand with this?"

Winry looked up. He was trying to push off the white twine tied around the box with his five working fingers and having no success.

"Oh," Winry said. Right. The guy only had one working hand. She reached out and picked up the box. She made quick work of the string, which, of course, got tangled when she tried to whip it off with effortless flair. Eventually, she just tossed it to the floor. The brown paper soon joined it.

Beneath the wrappings was a long, leather-bound box with hinges on one short end. Winry flipped open the lid and passed it to Edward.

Within, in a U-shape cradle padded with white velvet, was a watch chain. It was the standard length with thicker, heavier links than a military-issue one. The fastenings on either end were sturdier-looking as well, and they gleamed in the buttery light of Edward's reading lamp.

Edward's face fell into a small smile, his brows knit together. Winry was a little disappointed. Of course he hadn't learned how to accept a gift yet.

"It's great, Winry. Thanks."

He was not nearly excited enough about this. Winry reached forward and plucked the chain from the case. "It's custom made, you know. They don't make watch chains this tough. I knew how you liked to sling your old one around—until you broke it, that is. So I had them make it out of steel, not silver like the one that came with the watch. Good luck fatiguing this one. Also," Winry held the chain up toward Edward's face, "it's got a little plaque on it. Did you see this?" With her other hand, Winry pinched the little metal plate, about the size of a coin. It had a hole close to the edge, and through that hole, a link attached it to one end of the chain.

Edward reached forward with his left hand and took the chain from Winry by the plaque. He let the chain dangle down the back of his hand from between his middle and index fingers while the plaque lay flat against the lined skin of his fingertips.

Winry felt herself holding her breath. She had had the engraver etch in the flamel, the cross-bound winged snake that had, in so many cases, become Edward's crest. Winry remembered years and years when Edward had worn that symbol with pride, like it was the device of his clan.

When he still didn't find it as exciting as Winry did, she folded her arms over her chest. "Maybe I should have gotten you some candlesticks and a snowglobe."

Edward dropped the chain in the box and set it aside. He put up his hand in surrender. "No, Winry, I like it. I do. I really appreciate it." He looked to the side. "I didn't mean to come off as ungrateful."

"Well, bang up job on that, I can tell you," she muttered, glaring at him.

Edward deflated a little. "I don't," he rubbed the back of his head a little, "I don't really do gifts, you know," he said and then added lamely, "Equivalent exchange and all."

Winry dropped her hands to rest on the bed by her hips. She smiled warmly at him. "Edward, it is equivalent. If anything, I owe you more than a silly watch chain," she said, putting a hand on her sternum.

Edward furrowed his brows. "For what?"

She looked away. "For another year," she said. "After you were gone," Winry stopped herself. Edward did not talk to her about that. As far as she knew, he didn't talk to anyone about it. She hesitated for a moment. Then for another moment. Then she continued, "while you were gone, I realized how grateful I was for the time I did have." She had to push for the rest. "The time I had with you."

He looked away again, and Winry felt a twinge of frustration in her chest. Whatever it was the kept Edward from opening up, from interacting with other people like a human being was flaring up, and she knew in the part of her that had always known and always understood that Edward never would believe that he deserved more than the bitter company of his cold, indifferent alchemy. She sat forward suddenly, put one hand on his where it rested on his knee and the other on his cheek. She turned his face back to hers. "Do you know how proud of you I am?"

He tensed under her hand, and Winry scooted closer. "You won, you know? You got what you were searching for. Alphonse is back, in the flesh, and you're here with him. You beat the system, and in the time it took you to do that, you changed the world for the better."

Edward gave a self-deprecating laugh. "I didn't get everything I wanted," he said with a melancholy look at his dead, metal arm.

Winry dropped her hands and, instead, rested a palm on his cool, shining knuckles where they lay limply at his side. "I know, but I wouldn't want it any different."

Edward smiled, but Winry could see that he was still a little tense. "Yeah, I keep you in business," he replied, shirking what Winry knew he knew was her point.

"Oh, I've got business, Edward. More than I know what to do with," she assured him. "But none of it felt right when you were gone. When it was just Alphonse and me, it wasn't right. But I know now what I didn't know before." She gave Edward a long, hard look right in his coppery eyes. "I love Alphonse, but you're home to me."

She watched his shoulders slump a little.

"I know you like to think you don't belong anywhere, but if not here than where?"

Edward looked away and to the side. "I don't have an answer to that," he said.

Winry felt him withdrawing from her, but at the same time, something seemed to soften, and she inched a little closer. A part of her knew that she would have to be the one to move first, the one to walk more than halfway across that bridge between them. Still, another part of her had hoped that Edward wouldn't make her.

"Then let me answer for you," she said before leaning forward and kissing him again. This was not the desperate gesture at the kitchen table. This was a question, a coax, a finger held out and slowly curled toward her. "You belong here," she said when she had withdrawn. "You belong with Alphonse... and with me."

Edward abruptly swung his legs over the bed and stood up. He paced away from her and toward the door. "I wish I could agree with you, Winry. I really do," he said, and Winry believed him. She could see him moving toward the exit, getting ready to wave her out. Edward reached for the doorknob, turned it, and opened the door. He stood there, waiting for her. "It's just not that simple."

Winry looked down and sighed. She rose noiselessly from the bed. When she drew toward him, Winry turned, faced him full on.

"It is, Edward," she said, "Or it could be, if you let it."

When all he had to give her was a furrowed brow and a long stare, Winry bristled. Why did _he_ get to decide? Why did whatever twisted lens he saw the world through get to dictate how things were? "But you never could let it be simple, could you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Edward asked.

"You know what complicates things? When you're the hero and the villain in your own story. When you think, just because you can only see yourself that way, that you're a bad guy in everyone else's story." Winry planted an index finger in Edward's chest. "I've got news for you, Ed. You're not. And it kills me," she curled her fists, "it really kills me when I remember that you're never going to love you like I do."

Edward blinked. A tirade he had foreseen. This, though? This he had not expected.

Winry pressed her mouth tight, and water welled up in her eyes. Edward could not think of what he could say to her. Replies flashed through his mind before he could grasp them: _you don't want to get too close to me_ or _I never knew, although I had a very strong inkling_ or _do yourself a favor and bark up another tree._ Or _I love you, too._

When he took too long to reply, Winry shook her head and spun around. Edward watched her turn, her ponytail swishing around her shoulders. As she began storming out of the room, Edward stepped forward.

"Stop, Winry," he started. She didn't. "Winry, wait, please." He snatched at her arm and pulled her to a stop. She stood, a few steps out of his room, and turned back to him, her brows furrowed deep and her eyes wet and her mouth twisted shut. Her shoulders jumped a little, and Edward could tell that she was just keeping it together. She looked so hurt, in a way Edward had not seen before. He felt guilt pressing like a fist at his sternum, and he knew that he had certainly hurt her before but never like this.

"What?" she asked.

This would have been a perfect place to put a good, honest reply. Edward swallowed hard.

"Are you going to take five minutes and stop being selfish?" Winry asked, folding her arms over her chest.

Edward let out a dry, self-deprecating laugh. "Trust me, Winry, if I were selfish," he began, but what came after that? He would kiss her back? He would pretend for the night that he didn't have a long track record of crushing the people he loved? He would give into that little voice that stood up and shouted at him every time she entered a room? If he were selfish, he would _what? _"I would let this happen."

Winry stepped up closer to him. "You don't have to protect me, Ed."

She was so close now. He could see the thin, red lines in the whites of her eyes. He could see her eyelashes sticking to her cheek. He could see all the shallow creases in her lips.

"You don't even know," Edward said.

He felt her hand on his left arm. He felt it slip down over his triceps, over his elbow, down his forearm, and then Winry's slender fingers, warm and soft, closed around his.

He watched her creep unobtrusively closer, felt the air warm up between them as the space grew smaller and smaller. She tilted her face toward him, and Edward felt her breath across his mouth as she said, "Try me."

x

x

x

Edward could not help but think of a story he had read while in Munich, one that appeared in a book on his father's shelf. During this stage in his crumbling sanity, Edward, who had not yet been built a new arm and leg, was restricted to his father's home. In a wingback chair by a south-facing window, Edward sat and instructed the house keeper to pull down books from his father's neat, alphabetized, and categorized bookshelves. And for days, perhaps weeks, Edward combed texts for something that might get him back to Amestris. When that pursuit failed, Edward resigned himself to reading for similarities, searching for anything that might remind him of home.

This story, though, he had found in a tome of world mythology. While his favorite was always the story of the Fimbulvetr from Norse lore—this was, after all, a very dark time in his life—he had studied them all. And now, when Winry switched off the lamp on the bedside table and began putting warm, damp kisses down the jagged lengths of scars that radiated from his automail shoulder—she didn't need the light, Edward knew; she could remember them in the dark—he could not help but think of the allegory of Psyche. Poor Psyche, who nightly received a visitor who loved her dearly but only did so in the dark. She made a promise never to observe her visitor, and in exchange for that promise, he gave her everything she could want. Everything but one good look at him.

The room was hot now and still and quiet. After all the frenzy—Christ, it had been a long time—it seemed preternatural. The dark was a shroud, a smudge across a charcoal drawing. Only the yellowy light of the street lamp that shown through Edward's bedroom windows, all of them now open at Winry's insistence, cut through the dusty darkness in the room. Edward watched the light shifting and curving against Winry's back as it rose and fell, watched the light pool in the rivulets of sweat that collected down her spine. He wanted to dip his fingers in it, draw out the light across her skin, trace her tan lines. But he thought better of it. He thought he ought not touch her. He ought not get too comfortable, too used to her smell in his sheets, too attached to this overwhelming feeling of attachment.

In the myth, the visitor did not successfully withhold exploration for long. Edward wondered how long he could convince Winry to hold out.


	9. Providence

**A/N: **Ever need a thickening agent for your plot? Simply stir in a tablespoon of Roy/Winry interaction. Thanks, y'all.

**IX. Providence**

Edward awoke uncomfortable and simply a little peculiar—and not only because circumstances denied him a post-coital wash-up. From what he had garnered in the past—which, to be honest, was not terribly much—Winry would be hurting for a shower more than he. No, the cause of his discomfort was the small, nagging offness of sleeping on the opposite side of the bed than he usual did. Certainly, it was not so different as sleeping in another room or, indeed, another world, but it was that lack of commitment to difference, that _kind of_ different but not _really_ different, that had kept Edward from a proper night of sleep. It was that and the woman in his bed.

When Winry began to stir, Edward had been up and considering a maelstrom of things, one of which was the truly pleasant landscape she made when she lay on her side under his blankets.

Winry rolled onto her back and rubbed her eyes before sitting up and stretching. She reached her right hand up toward the ceiling and rested her left hand on her extended elbow.

And there were breasts in his bed. Edward had always pictured Winry having perfect breasts and, lo and behold, she really did. And there they were. In his bed. Unabashed and unrepentant. Good morning.

Edward did not realize that he had propped himself up on his good elbow and was staring until Winry cleared her throat. He looked up to see Winry somewhere ambiguous on the spectrum between smiling and glaring. It was weighted toward smiling, though.

"Hello," Winry said and crossed her arms over her chest.

Edward felt his face getting uncomfortably warm. "Hello," he replied.

Winry turned her head to the side a little as though she were waiting for him to say something more, and Edward remembered that this exchange in the morning was sincerely one of his least favorite necessities in his life.

When he couldn't really think of anything to say other than _So, we had sex last night. That was a good time, _Winry smiled. Edward, in response, scowled because it was one of those laughing-at-you kinds of smiles.

"How are you this morning?" Winry asked, still smiling at him.

Edward pushed himself up and put his pillow against the headboard. "Just dandy," he said sarcastically. "You?"

Winry stood up and stretched her back and—boy, was that distracting—said, "A little sore."

Edward felt something in chest jump, and the room got very cold very quickly. A knot rose up in his throat, and his mouth went dry, and Edward had to keep his voice from cracking when he asked, "That—that wasn't, uh, you know," Winry turned and gave him an _out with it already_ sort of look, "Your first time, right?"

Winry gave Edward the most sympathetic look he had ever seen her face. Her brows knit together, her mouth formed a little _O_, and she sat down on the bed next to him. "Aren't you sweet," she said and rested a hand on Ed's shoulder. The gesture bordered on condescending, but Edward was too apprehensive to notice. "No, Ed," she said, shaking her head, "It wasn't." She abruptly frowned. "It didn't seem like it, did it?"

"Well, no, but you said you were sore." From what Edward had heard once in a conversation that he really didn't want to be having, virgins may or may not shatter upon first contact. Not that he'd ever seen it himself.

Winry tilted her head to the right until her neck popped. "I slept funny, I think," she said and rubbed her shoulder. She turned toward the dresser and opened the top drawer. When she didn't find what she wanted there, she opened another. Then she turned toward Edward's closet and began rifling though his things. Edward watched her curiously as she reached in and pulled out one of his work shirts. She slipped it over her shoulders and sat down on the bed, facing Edward, as she buttoned the front.

Edward met her eyes and tried to interpret what Winry's face was saying. There was something there, something quiet and tender and a little grateful, and Edward was partially eager to hear what she was thinking but mostly glad she wasn't saying it.

Winry settled a hand on his flesh shoulder and kissed him.

"Happy birthday, Ed," she said before standing up. Winry pulled her underwear on and left the room.

Edward watched her go, watched the way his shirt was almost long enough to hide her skivvies, but as she sauntered down the hall, his shirt tails kicked up, revealing flashes of white lacy trim. And with all the resolution he had that early in the day, Edward willed a litany of things from his head.

x

x

x

Together, Edward and Winry loaded into Edward's car. Edward put up a fierce fight when Winry insisted that she drive, and only after Edward had settled into the driver's seat did he realize that he could not physically drive his own car—he needed two hands: one for steering and one for shifting. He made Winry swear upon everything he thought she might value that she wouldn't do anything risky.

"You worry too much," Winry said with a dismissive wave as she started up the car. "Besides, there aren't any train tracks between here and my office."

Edward gave her a wide-eyed, tight-lipped look that let Winry know just how not funny he thought she was.

Winry parked in the lot behind the clinic. The morning was quickly becoming a hot and sunny one, and the glare off the pavement made both Edward and Winry wince.

Sullivan and Rockbell's, Edward quickly remembered, was one of two automail and prosthetics providers contracted by the military, making them part of the small fleet of mechanics to whom the entire automail-using population of the military was referred. The waiting room was not so full as Edward had seen in the past, but all the men in there—probably about six in total—were in uniform. Edward was glad to see that none of them recognized him, saving him the cumbersome display of saluting. Similarly, many of those men looked to be in no condition to stand at attention.

The secretary behind the desk stood up when Winry walked in.

"Hey, Miss Rockbell," the secretary said brightly. The girl had been working there for, perhaps, three months, and Winry looked forward to a time when she was broken in enough to move to first names. "Coming to work on your day off?"

Winry gestured at Ed over her shoulder. "This one's personal," she said. Edward pinked and glared at her.

"Oh, Major Elric!" the secretary chirruped. She, of course, recognized Ed from a combination of newspaper articles and previous visits to Sullivan and Rockbell's. "How are you today?"

Edward gave her a wide, fake grin, and Winry braced herself for whatever unfriendly thing was about to come out of his mouth. "Any day at the mechanic's is a bad one," he replied, his voice full of all the false sunshine he could affect.

The secretary looked like she was about to give him some buoyant reply, but as his words settled in and he and Winry slipped into a back room, she realized that she was being mocked.

"That was rude," Winry hissed at him as they stepped into her workshop.

"Next time you ask a guy with a black eye and a broken arm how he's doing, we'll see how friendly his reply is," Edward replied as he hopped up onto the examination table in the corner of the room.

Winry thought for a moment. "Point taken," she admitted as she began unclipping Edward's sling from its shoulder strap so she could remove the whole thing without manipulating his arm. She pulled the sling away and set it on a countertop near the examination table.

The workshop was about forty percent doctor's office and sixty percent mechanic's garage. Winry kept clean sheets of white paper on her examination table, and across the room, she kept a slip cover over her mounted band saw, outfitted with a metal-cutting blade. The walls were soft beige and the counters an olivine color. The wall opposite the examination table had two windows in it which looked out over the street. That morning, the reflection off the windshields of parked cars was so bad that Winry closed the blinds.

"So what exactly happened?" Winry asked as she unbuttoned Ed's shirt.

He wanted to ask her if she undressed all her patients. Instead he said, "Russell didn't tell you?"

Winry pushed his shirt back off his shoulders, and after easing it gingerly off his metal arm, tossed it onto the table behind him. "He said something about a cave in, but to be totally honest, Edward, I didn't really catch all he told me."

She said it in a way she thought would make him feel the least like shit for worrying her. It didn't work.

This was a delicate situation, Ed realized. How much could he really tell her? He resolved to tell her just that. "I can't really say too much."

Winry, with her attention focused on unbinding Ed's shoulder, only nodded and gave an understanding, "Ah."

Edward rolled his eyes. "You and Al are peas in a pod, you know that?" he snapped.

Without looking up, Winry replied, "We do have a lot in common."

That one, Edward could tell, was not intended to be painless, and he knew, even if he didn't want to, that he rather deserved it.

He blew out a long sigh. "I can tell you that it started hurting when I was using a pick axe. It felt something sort of pinch and grind in my shoulder. It ached all the time after that, but it would flare up when I extended it."

Winry had finished unwrapping the bandages and was staring, openly shocked, at what remained of her work.

"What the hell did you do?" she asked quietly, reaching out with her right had, curling her fingertips around the back of his arm and running her thumb over the two, ropey cords that held his dead arm to his body.

"I fell," he said, watching her face. "For a minute, I had all my weight on my right arm. That's when it ripped out like that."

Winry twisted her mouth in thought and sighed through her nose. "This is not good, Edward," she said. "I've got to disassemble and mechanically remove the remains of your arm from the port, but I've got a feeling that you cracked the socket wall."

"What does that mean?"

"You know how your arm and leg have a plug on them, and that fits into the port in your thigh and shoulder? Well, both ports have mounted sockets in them that hold all the nerve connections. At the same time, they're the deepest, most basic structural support of the joint. I'm going to bet that you got a crack in your socket, and that compromised the integrity of the whole joint. Then, when you kept using it," Winry glared, "like I've _always told you not to,_ the misalignment referred down into the rest of your arm. The strength of the whole apparatus was undermined by that little crack."

Edward was quiet for a moment. "You're going to have to reinstall the entire port, aren't you?" That would mean removing the entire automail mechanism from his shoulder and starting from the beginning. Like when he was a kid.

Winry chewed her lip. "I can't say just yet." Winry stepped back and folded her arms. "This my fault," she said.

"You always say that, and it's never true."

Winry shook her head. "No, really, this time. I should have serviced your automail before you left. I should have serviced it a month ago." She turned to her left, cast her face down and to the side, and showed Edward her shoulder.

He couldn't see her face when he said, "Come on, Winry. We both know I'm not the easiest patient to—"

"No, Edward," Winry said, snapping her eyes back up to his. "This isn't a come-in-so-I-can-tighten-that-bolt kind of thing. This is important. This is me," she pressed her fingers to her sternum, "failing as a mechanic." Her voice shook as she said it, and Edward knew that he couldn't talk her out of that one.

Edward considered himself, if nothing else, rather practical. When something needed doing, he did it, and that simplicity brought him some degree of comfort. For that reason, he let her ruminate for a moment and then said, "Only you can be the judge of that, Winry, but since I don't plan on suing you, I think it's inconsequential."

He watched her, didn't let her look at her feet.

"So, what are the best and worst case scenarios?" Edward asked.

Winry looked at him hard. "At best, I remove the old arm and find something in the plug was off. At worst, I remove the old arm and find that the port is damaged. That could mean a new socket if it's not bad or a new port if it is."

"Then there's no point in agonizing until there's something worth agonizing over."

After a pause and a terse nod, Winry steeled herself and said, "Right. We'll cross that bridge when we reach it."

He felt something cool in him, a wave of relief at Winry's concession to pragmatism. "Great," Ed replied, "Because I'm freaking sick of having a dead arm hanging off my shoulder."

Winry smiled and turned toward her work bench. She produced an apron, a kit of her precision tools, and a bandana. She tied her hair back determinedly, donned the apron, and switched on the work lamp next to the examination table.

The mechanism designed to painlessly eject Edward's arm from the port was under a guard plate at the anchor point of the deltoid myofibril cables and had, consequently, gotten destroyed when Edward's arm ripped loose. This meant that, though the ache of the initial injury had faded, Winry would be awakening Edward's pain receptors, as rudimentary as they were in automail, as she removed his arm, piece by excruciating piece.

She instructed Edward to lie back on the table. Winry pulled a stool up to the table and draped his arm over her knees. The first step was, she explained, to clear away the big things. Winry picked up a pair of heavy-duty loppers from a shelf out of view from the examination table. "I'm going to sever the cables keeping your arm attached," she said.

"Okay," Edward replied.

"This is going to hurt."

Edward lolled his face toward her. He almost said something sarcastic, but the look in her eyes let him know that she was significantly more upset about this than he was.

"I'm ready," he said.

Winry carefully took the loppers in both hands and opened the blades. With the hanging arm positioned so that it would fall across her knees, Winry brought the loppers forward until the first cable was nestled in the V created by the blades. She did not realize that she was drawing in a bracing breath at the same time Edward was.

Then she cut the cable.

And that was the last thing Edward remembered before he took himself somewhere very far from that table.

x

x

x

Edward lay unconscious on her examination table when Winry stood up and mopped at her brow with the back of her hand. The room felt hot, oppressively so, but a hand on Edward's flesh arm told Winry that he was cool to the touch.

The first step was done. Winry had severed the intact section of Edward's arm and had set it aside to salvage for parts later. After that came the painstaking removal of the automail shoulder from the port. Winry took it out part by part, sometimes closing her hands around metal plates big enough to handle and other times pinching out tiny screws and slivers of biochemical conductors twisted up between wires. She listened to Edward's breath the entire time, paused periodically to watch his chest and count his pulses. He had, she knew, put himself some place else, a skill he had mastered when he had first returned to Amestris and Winry had had to repair and update all the connectors for his effluent nerves.

But this was enough for one day. More importantly, she needed Edward conscious to give her feedback on the receptivity of the mounted socket in his body. It would be painful, certainly, but the response of the patient was vital in order for Winry to gauge the degree of the damage. From what she could see, twisting her work lamp around to shine directly into the cavern she and Pinako had hollowed out in his shoulder, there was a small crack in the socket. It was not long and not deep, but it was along the inner wall of the socket, meaning that, regardless of the magnitude of the damage, at the very least the socket would have to be replaced.

Winry reminded herself of Edward's words as she slipped out of her workshop. Her thoughts chased each other through her mind as she made her silent way down the hall and toward the receptionist's desk. The secretary was carefully filing her nails when Winry approached. The waiting room had cleared out by that point—Winry had been working for over an hour on Edward's arm.

"How'd it go?" the receptionist asked.

Winry wasn't sure how to respond so she said, "Just fine. Can I use the phone real quick?"

The receptionist smiled, and in a display of generous discretion, did not press Winry for details. "Sure," she said and pushed her rolling chair away from the phone.

Winry nodded her gratitude and lifted the phone from the cradle. Her fingers hovered over the keys. Alphonse would be in class, and she needed someone to help her get Edward into the car. If it were just that, Winry might have asked a colleague for help. Once back at Edward's house, though, she would need help getting him inside and into bed. Then, and this was an inevitability, she would want some company while she waited for Edward to come to.

The series of movements needed to dial the Abuse of Alchemy Division was muscle memory for Winry, and she had not realized that she was calling Edward's office until she had entered the passcode required to get through the switchboard from an unapproved phone line.

"Abuse of Alchemy," a resonant baritone said on the other end of the line, and Winry knew who it was before he could finish with, "Mustang speaking."

Winry felt the rush of relief before she could understand it. "Hi, General, it's Winry."

"Miss Rockbell," he said, his voice losing the bland indifference it had had upon answering. "Is everything all right?" Winry could almost hear him sitting up straighter, listening closer to her.

"Um, yeah," she said, knowing that no one—and certainly not someone as intuitive as the General—would believe her. "I've got Edward at my shop right now."

"What's the damage?" Mustang asked.

"I've removed what was left of his arm, but I can't make much of a diagnosis just yet."

Without hesitation, Mustang asked, "Is there anything I can do?"

Perhaps, had Winry not felt so drained, had not felt like she was merely running on fumes, she would have felt something at the General's solicitude. Instead, she gave a weary, "Yeah, actually. Even without the automail arm, I can't move him by myself."

"I'm on my way," Mustang said and hung up the phone.

Winry set the receiver back on the hook.

"Is everything okay, Miss Rockbell?" the receptionist asked from Winry's right.

Winry nodded more to herself than anyone else. "It'll be fine." And some part of her, perhaps a part she did not truly want to recognize, knew that it would be as soon as Mustang got there.

x

x

x

Mustang had someone from motorpool drop him off on the curb outside of Sullivan and Rockbell's. Squinting his one eye past the sunlight glaring off the hood of a car parallel parked on the street, Mustang could see the new sign. It had been quite some time since he had been by, and he remembered the previous sign, swinging from it rusted mount, reading in bold letters "Sullivan's." The new sign, one that did not squeak on its hinges, made him smile.

His previous trip to Sullivan's had been under similar circumstances: a case involving a chimera—a real one—loose in Central's business district. It had, in fact, been the efforts of a disgruntled tobacco merchant with his panties in a twist over a newly enacted excise tax. Apprehending him had been the easy part, and Mustang had assigned Edward and Havoc to capturing the beast where it was cornered in a women's restroom outside the Minister of Agriculture's office. Ultimately, Havoc had fired all sixteen rounds from his two handguns into the monster's head, but only after it had sunk it's incisors into Edward's thigh.

It had been after hours, and Winry had answered the office phone out of irritation—she had been making a late dinner—to hear Mustang's frantic voice informing her that the plating around Edward's automail port had been damaged. Havoc had carried Edward into Winry's workshop, where she was waiting in pajama pants and a white camisole.

Mustang had made a pot of coffee in the break room and waited with Havoc to hear the result. Winry emerged, smudged with Edward's blood and engine grease, from her work shop and announced that, though she had to replace all the plating around the port, the port itself had not been damaged. Mustang had not known much about automail—he still did not, to be honest—but any damage being less than it could have been was good news, he assumed.

They had resolved to make Edward comfortable in Winry's shop until the morning, when she would wake him up and fill him in. That night, Havoc and Mustang had driven back to headquarters exhausted and relieved. Mustang had never mentioned his gratitude to her—until Edward's birthday party, he never thought he would have the opportunity to let her know.

But now...

Mustang ran a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face, and headed into the clinic. He was relieved to see the waiting room empty—no simpering and saluting.

The receptionist hopped to her feet when Mustang walked past the desk without hesitation. "Sir," she said without catching how many stars there were on his shoulder but noting that there were, indeed, quite a few. "Sir, can I—"

Mustang held up his hand as he passed, and the receptionist was silenced. He made a note to himself to try the dismissive wave and determined look combination in the office sometime and made his way back to Winry's workshop. He opened the door without knocking and entered.

He saw Winry sitting at Edward's left where he lay on the examination table, one hand resting on his and the other propping up her forehead. She leaned over Edward, covered her eyes with her palm. Edward was still. He could have been sleeping, his shirt and sling removed. Winry looked up, her face a little paler than usual. Her eyes were red, not from crying, he thought, but from straining.

"How is he?" Mustang asked as he shut the door behind him.

Winry looked at him a moment longer than he anticipated and said, "It's going to be a hard week."

"Get his things," Mustang instructed, and Winry complied. While she was collecting Edward's belongings, Mustang pushed one hand under Edward's shoulders and sat him up. He moved like clay. He was limp and fell against Mustang as soon as he was sitting up. Taking a moment to prepare himself for the strain of lifting Edward, Mustang pushed his other arm under Edward's knees and hoisted him off the table.

Winry rushed to a corner closet and produced a collapsed wheelchair. Opening the wheelchair with a snap and some creaking, Winry pulled the chair up to where Mustang could negotiate Edward into the sling-like seat. She then hurried ahead of him and opened the door. "Take a left," she said, "and I'll show you to the back door."

As Mustang made his way down the hall, pushing Edward ahead of him. He could not help but think that Winry could have found an intern somewhere to help her with transportation; why she had called him, then, he assumed, had more to do with what happened after Edward was home. Winry jogged ahead of them, opening doors, whispering directions. She eventually pointed him down a long hall with an emergency exit at the end. After Mustang had edged Edward out of the back door, Winry ran to the car and brought it around. She then hopped out and helped Mustang ease Edward into the back seat.

Mustang stood at the car door through which they had just gingerly fed Edward. "I'll drive," he said, holding out his right hand. Winry appreciated what he was offering, so she handed him the keys and sank into the back seat next to Edward. As the General came around to the driver's seat, Winry eased Edward over onto his side and gently shifted his head into her lap. Once settled, Winry swept Edward's hair out of his face, watched his brow for any sign of pain. He remained still, though, and his blank, calm face made Winry want to take that moment, the only time when Edward would not react to her, to lavish him with all the apologies he wouldn't let her give before, the ones he would never accept if he were conscious.

x

x

x

They brought Edward in together and maneuvered him onto the couch in the parlor. Getting him up the front steps had certainly been a team effort. The foyer had been particularly challenging: the passage was narrow enough without the long table strewn with Edward's birthday presents against one wall. Had they not been navigating a battering, unconscious loved one, it might have, in fact, been comical.

After Edward was settled in, Mustang and Winry took seats and tall glasses of ice water at the kitchen table. Between long, cooling swallows, Mustang rubbed blood back into his forearms. Typically, his pride kept him from doing something like that in front of a woman—_oh, that? I bench press kids like Fullmetal every morning before breakfast. Do you have any jars that need opening? Any windows needing to be unjammed?_ _Any items too high for you to reach?_

But this was Winry. And that changed everything.

Mustang shed his coat and unbuttoned the collar and top button of his shirt while Winry pulled at the front of her blouse.

"So, what's next?" Mustang asked. He appreciated the neutrality of Edward as a conversation topic. It beat the hell out of the silence in which he watched her tired eyes studying the table and her white teeth chewing her lip.

"Edward did a real number on his automail," Winry said, holding her glass in both hands and rubbing at a spot with her thumb. "I need him conscious to do diagnostic tests on the parts still in him."

"Sounds complicated," Mustang offered.

Winry shrugged.

After a pregnant pause, Mustang said, "You know, Miss Rockbell," she looked up at him, "No one blames the mechanic when someone drives his car into a tree."

"Unless he ran his car into a tree because the brakes failed," she answered sullenly.

"Even in those circumstances," Mustang replied, "Sometimes things just break."

Winry put her glass down on the table hard, and water sloshed over the side. She wanted to express it, wanted to find the right string of words to explain why she was to blame. She was, in her mind, entirely justified in holding herself responsible, and it was becoming frustrating that no one would let her just take it, chew on it, and add it to the list of things she couldn't forgive herself for. "No they don't," was all she could muster, and Winry knew that that argument would convince no one. She grit her teeth and turned her face down. She did not want to cry in front of him, of all people.

Mustang took a draw from his glass and pushed the pile of gifts back so he could rest his arm on the table. "I imagine you would make a formidable alchemist," he said.

Winry looked up at that.

"Alchemists find that one technique they're good at, and they master it," he said and then added dryly, "Unless you're an Elric, and then you're a master at everything without trying." Winry snorted. "But if you're like the rest of us, you zero in on the one realm you can command, and with all your will, you command it."

He watched Winry's face begin to soften, the hard lines of self-doubt replaced by the smoother ones of grief.

"But a wise alchemist knows he can't control every factor all the time."

Winry blew a sigh that ruffled her bangs. She knew he was right. "I wonder what kind of alchemist that would make Ed."

"It certainly makes me a hypocritical one, but that doesn't change the fact that it's true."

"Well, _I_ think you're a pretty wise alchemist," Winry conceded and flopped back into her chair.

He was quiet for a moment. "That's very generous of you," Mustang replied with a weight and sincerity Winry had not anticipated.

The following silence was oppressive.

The exchange had occurred before either of them was entirely certain it was happening. And then there they were at Edward's kitchen table, the untouchable subject as present as if Winry's parents had walked up and taken a seat with them. Winry knew, if there were someone to tell her about powerlessness it was Brigadier General Roy Mustang, and it made Winry wonder about the last thing her parents saw before they died. Was it the Major, paralyzed and powerful beyond his own capacity? Or was it Mustang, looking like he did right then, human and vulnerable, looking like he had just inadvertently stepped into something overwhelming and terrible, something bigger than his own tragic past, an inherent part of both of them?

He stared at her, one good eye still and focused. He was waiting.

Winry felt something crack in her. She thought of the tiny chink she had uncovered in Edward's automail shoulder, and she pictured something in her chest echoing that little rift. She felt the crack upset her foundation, her beams and girders groaning under the shift. She felt that little crack become a rift, then a fissure, then a rolling tremor under her feet, turning the ground she thought she stood on into liquid. She felt the earth open, turn over, curl its arms around itself as it tumbled away from her.

She felt her world wobble on its axis.

Still, Mustang waited.

An apology welled up in her throat, and right there, in that moment, she knew—she didn't think or believe or hope—she knew that the key she needed to close that door and finally lock it was to tell Mustang how profoundly sorry she was that he had to be the one to execute her parents.

Losing them had been devastating, but Winry could not imagine how it must have been to take them away.

He was a good man. And it wasn't fair.

Winry sat forward, watched his handsome, half-hidden face. She knew that, in that instant, in all instances, he was at her mercy, and he did nothing to hide that fact. She wanted to brush his hair out of his eye. She wanted to put her arms around him and tell him she never had any right to punish him.

"General," Winry began.

A groaning and shifting from the parlor stopped Winry, though, and both she and Mustang looked toward the sound when it came. Together, they jumped from their seats and hurried toward the couch where Edward was switching between scrubbing at his bleary eyes and rubbing his neck. He peered up when Winry and Mustang approached.

"Tell me we're done for today," Edward intoned.

Winry set her fists against her hips. "For today, buddy, but we've got a lot more work to do before you're done."

Edward draped his arm over his face. "Great."

Winry heard a chuckle behind her and turned toward Mustang. "If he's going to pull through," he said, "I'm going to call a car."

"Okay, thanks, General," Winry replied. As Mustang headed for the phone in the kitchen, Winry sank onto the couch next to Edward's hip. "How are you feeling?" she asked.

Edward watched her lean over him and rest her elbow on the back of the couch, pressing her hip to his. She rested her hand on his flesh shoulder and gave him a squeeze. Her palm felt damp and cool, which Edward appreciated in the creeping heat of his house. When Winry lifted her hand away and brushed his bangs off his forehead, the lingering kiss of her handprint remained, and the ceiling fan overhead blew a breeze over it, cooling it, drawing his attention to her touch.

It was, he had to admit, a pleasant welcome to wake up to, but the sound of Mustang in his kitchen snatched his attention away. Edward pulled a very suspicious face and craned to try to see Mustang walking away. "I'm fine. What is _he_ doing here?"

_Giving me existential crises_, Winry thought. "You were out cold at my shop, and I needed someone to help me get you back here."

"So you called _him?_"

"No," Winry retorted. "I called your office, and he picked up. And you should be grateful he was able to come out. I couldn't carry you on my own."

Edward sat up. "You let Mustang carry me around?" he screeched. "Did anyone see?"

Winry gave him a dismissive wave. "Oh, sure. All of Central. We paraded up and down Main Street and sang the national anthem." Edward glared at her. Winry glared back. "No, you knucklehead. No one saw."

"Next time, I'd rather sleep it off in your workshop than have Mustang's help. You know he's not going to let me live this down _ever,_ right?"

"Oh, well, excuse me for trying to make you comfortable," Winry replied, crossing her arms over her chest. The neckline of her blouse revealed the extra boost her arms created, and Edward willed himself to think of something else. Even focusing on the humiliation of the General's help was a better alternative than popping a boner with Mustang in the next room over.

"Judging by all the whinging going on out here," Mustang said as he entered the parlor, "you're feeling better, Fullmetal." Mustang came around and rested his hip against the corner of the couch's back. He looked down and smiled. "You know, you really worried Miss Rockbell when you fainted."

Edward swung his legs around so that he was sitting up. "Nobody's whinging, and _I didn't faint_."

"Right," Mustang said, a glint in his eye, "And I didn't carry you to this couch like a blushing bride."

In response to this, Edward blushed. He turned his ire on Winry, who was suppressing laughter with little success. "Next time, I'd rather you lay me out on a gurney and put me in cold storage before you call him for help."

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True to Winry's prediction, it was a very hard week for Edward. With the wreckage of his old arm removed, Winry began the grueling process of testing the socket in his shoulder to determine the damage to nervous receptivity. This involved, essentially, poking Edward in the socket with a variety of tools and noting which areas and which tools caused him the most discomfort. Edward could tell that Winry was willing herself not to be apologetic throughout the process, and he appreciated that; the only sympathetic gesture she gave him came between tests. Winry would gently run her hand around the inner wall of the socket, sometimes feathering a touch and sometimes pressing her fingers hard against the metal. It sent shivers from Edward's skull to his sacrum, blotted out the lingering pain of the previous test, and could have been, had he not been enduring a personal study in his own tolerance for varying degrees of pain, rather arousing. That particular technique, Edward noticed, Winry took home with her. She added it to her growing list of techniques. Like when she traced her fingers over the skin behind his ear or left kisses along his collarbone or blew her breath across the nape of his neck.

After a few rounds of testing, Winry determined that they could get away with simply replacing the socket. And this surgery, unlike the first installment so many years ago, could be done with Edward under as anesthetic. With his nerves already wired, she would not need him conscious simply to re-anchor them in the conductive walls of the new socket. If all went well, Winry told him, he would wake up feeling quite sore at worst.

Indeed, Edward awoke sore, but that he noticed only secondarily.

First, however, he noticed that he was home: recovering in his own bed in his own room with a head of corn-silk hair resting against his left shoulder, an arm tossed across his solar plexus. He felt the weight of Winry's leg draped over his, the pressure of her chest rising and falling against him, her breath on his neck. He curled his good arm around her ribs and squeezed.

Twenty-four hours later, Edward was already pressuring Winry to build him a new arm and install it.

"I've only got so much PTO saved up, you know," Edward said, pointing his fork at her across the table over breakfast. In truth, Edward was itching to get back to work. Over his convalescence, he had decided that, perhaps, he had better update the General on what he had seen in Xenotime. The next step after that was to unload all the red water samples he had brought back with him—they remained in a wooden crate next to the cellar door—and collect all the equipment he would need to begin analyzing the samples in the basement.

Winry, in response, slammed down her utensils.

"Keep it up, brother, and I imagine you're going to need a lot more than sick leave," Alphonse, who had adjusted with ease to Winry eating breakfast with them every morning, informed his brother. Alphonse had, of course, anticipated Winry's moving in with them; the only factor he had not known already was when. It had taken a lot longer than he thought it would.

Winry shoved her chair back and stood up. "Listen to your brother, Ed, or you're going to be building your own stupid arm."

Forty-eight hours later, Winry stood at the front door to Edward and Alphonse's house and shouted at Ed to hurry the hell up. She had to drop him off at headquarters before she could drive herself to work, and neither of them was accustomed to this constraint. With one last, long draw off his coffee mug, Edward said goodbye to his brother, snatched up his uniform coat and briefcase, and jogged to catch up to Winry.


	10. Quickening

**A/N:** This chapter's warnings include descriptive gore & misogyny. Also, a lot of profanity. Also, appearance of characters who only appear in the manga/second series. Also, um, don't check my facts too closely: I've extended artistic license to include anatomy and chemistry in this chapter.

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**X. Quickening**

The courtyard before Central Headquarters seemed bigger than life. How many weeks had it been? Three? Four? Edward had not spent so much time away from his office since he had had an office to claim as his own. The sun off the concrete made it look like a desert of stone and glare, and with the aching in his automail leg, Edward didn't look forward to traversing it.

The oddest thing about being away, Edward thought, was knowing that everything else hadn't paused while he was pursuing his own interests. Alphonse had not changed too much in the time Edward was in Xenotime—he was still in classes, still spending long evening hours over his homework. The addition of regular doctor visits was different, but Alphonse was never one to let his deepest sufferings grow too loud, making any benefits of the treatment invisible to anyone but him. Things with Winry had certainly evolved—he hadn't had that much sex in one week since, well, ever—but that all had happened since Edward had come home. Returning to Al and Winry had felt like returning to a record player and putting the needle back where he had stopped.

But if there was one thing Edward had learned from the Double-A, from being a State Alchemist, it was that humans never cease discovering the nefarious underbelly of the intoxicating power of alchemy. Edward knew he would come back to his office to find his colleagues either twiddling their thumbs between cases or working in the thick of one. And they would talk about things done in his absence, findings made by eyes other than his. Edward never liked the notion of the inexorable turning of time without him.

Edward tightened his grip on his briefcase and headed for the main entrance.

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All eyes flicked toward him when he entered the office, and Edward immediately knew that he was interrupting something. The beige walls and dark desks seemed like a distant memory, like stepping into a photograph, perhaps, but the moving parts, the people within, were a jolt, snatching him back to his life here.

Maria Ross and Jean Havoc stood on either side of General Mustang, who was seated at his desk. The General had a manila folder open and propped against the edge of his desk, and he was mid-motion, passing a sheet to Ross when Edward opened the door and stepped in.

"Fullmetal," Mustang said, his face the only part of the greeting that revealed his surprise.

"Look who darkens our door," Havoc said as he stood up straight. He came around the desk and approached Ed. He clapped him on the back so hard that Edward stumbled forward. "Didn't expect to see you for another couple days or so."

"How are you feeling, Edward?" Ross asked, straightening her back but remaining at Mustang's side.

"Not as much like hamburger meat as the last time you saw me," Edward said. He put up his right arm, fist closed. "Been good and overhauled, and I'm ready to do something productive."

Edward saw Mustang cock an eyebrow, and he knew immediately that he had said something that he would regret. "Overhauled, eh? Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"

"Must be," Havoc said as he walked back toward Mustang's desk. "That is a spectacular hickey there, Ed."

Edward's eyes opened wide, and he clapped a hand to his neck where Winry had bit him good and hard the night before. He pulled his hand back and looked at it, half expecting to see blood.

"Lay off him," Ross chided, turning a frown on Havoc and Mustang, but when she turned back to Ed, he knew exactly what was going to come out of that smirk. "So, how's Winry?"

"Ross, you, too?" Edward croaked. He could feel the heat in his face, and he knew he was red from the collar up.

Ross shrugged and smiled.

"We're only teasing, Ed," Mustang said. "We're very happy for you."

Edward slammed his briefcase down on his desk. "Don't you people work here or something?"

Mustang glanced at the face of his pocket watch and said, "I would think that _some_ of us do."

Ed scowled. "I show up late to work _once_, and I get this shit? That's funny coming from you, General I-was-late-to-work-because-I-couldn't-remember-whose-bed-my-boots-were-under."

Havoc furrowed his brow and muttered, "Ouch."

Mustang, of course, did not miss a beat. "I suppose that theory explains your usual punctuality, Fullmetal." It took a second for that one to sink in, but once it did, Ed was ready to rip out Mustang's trachea.

"All right, all right," Ross said, putting up her hands. "Before HR comes up here to investigate sexual harassment claims, let's save the sophomoric pissing contest for after work hours, shall we?"

"He started it," Ed said, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Ed!"

Edward threw up his hands. "Okay, fine. What are you all gawking at, anyway?"

The air of jocularity went out of the room like water through mesh. Edward watched a shadow pass over his colleagues as Ross picked up a sheet of paper from Mustang's desk and Havoc began examining the ceiling tiles.

"You'll recall a case I was looking at shortly before you left? The double homicide?" Mustang began.

"The one that wasn't our jurisdiction?" Edward offered.

"That's the one," Mustang said. "It's gone from double to quintuple."

Edward grimaced. "That's terrible and all, but what has it got to do with alchemy?"

"I was wondering that myself, sir," Havoc said to Mustang.

The General collected his papers and slipped them back into the file. "Perhaps this warrants a briefing," he said. "Have a seat, and I'll explain," he added and gestured toward the desks in the middle of the room. His subordinates took their seats, Edward across from Ross and Havoc on Edward's left. The desk to Ross's right remained vacant and had been for four months now.

The familiarity of it brought Edward some comfort. This formula was the preamble to all the Double-A cases, although cases introduced in this fashion were typically theirs, passed to them from other departments. This was, perhaps, their first purloined file to earn such treatment in a year, and they did not speak much of the last one, the one that had cost both Edward and Havoc a promotion.

Mustang rose from his desk with file in hand, and he lifted a larger, folded sheet from the left-hand drawer.

"February twenty-seventh," Mustang said as he approached his subordinates conjoined desks. He set down his file on the corner of Ross's desk and unfolded the sheet where the others could see it. It was a map of Central, one which Edward recognized. Mustang pointed to a red X on the Teague River, which ran down a concrete chute through the city. The X was, Edward noted, just upriver from the paper mill. "Rebecca Henson's body was pulled from the river by an engineer working on the effluent pipes along the bank." Mustang pointed to another X farther upriver. "March eleventh. Diane Propst. Found by some kids near the overpass." Another X. "Tamara Arlington, a week later." Mustang set his index and middle fingers on two adjacent X's. "Allie Deel and Pyrrha Pulliam, April fifth.

"Basic forensics tells us to find commonalities," Mustang began. He held up his hand and counted off. "All these women have been reported missing in that last six months, Propst being the first in November of last year, and Deel most recently in January. All these women were working as prostitutes at the time of their abductions. All these women were in their second or third trimesters when they disappeared."

"What?" Edward snapped. "They were pregnant?"

Mustang answered, "And they were, according to the autopsies, very close to being done with their pregnancies. Henson might have been in labor when she was killed."

No one noticed Havoc turn a shade paler.

"Did these women drown?" Ed asked, sitting back in his chair. He crossed his arms over his chest and grimaced up at Mustang.

"I wish, for their sake, they had," Ross muttered.

Mustang looked at Ross, who was staring down at the map with a furrowed brow. "That brings me to why I think this case might be making its way to our office soon." Mustang lifted the folder from Ross's desk, opened it, and removed a single photograph. He passed it to Edward first. "They were all eviscerated."

Perhaps a month of vacation had made Edward soft. Perhaps it had been a long time since their last case that involved brutalized women. Perhaps it was his burgeoning attachment to Winry, to someone who might have children of her own one day, to someone who had needed his rescuing in the past. Whatever the case, when Edward took the photograph from Mustang, he felt his disgust like a jolt to his spine.

"Oh, Christ," Edward swore, turning his eyes for a moment.

The eight-and-a-half by eleven inch, glossy, black and white photo showed what was once a woman sprawled on the concrete bank of the Teague. She was naked, her long limbs spread out around her as though she was a loose-jointed doll dropped on the floor. From her position in the dark pool, Edward could just imagine investigators pulling her from the water by her shoulders and ankles, lowering her to the ground. She was white and slippery; in the areas where decay hastened, irregular splotches of discoloration mottled her skin, and all over her, across her face and breasts, her skin looked thin and stretched over the tumefied, water-logged flesh beneath. Cold veins stood out stark across her chest and her thighs and around the pock marks and divots where animals in the river had taken out chunks of her. She had long hair, light-colored despite the river water, and it coiled around her head like hungry bottom-feeders.

But all that was rather standard dead-body business. Certainly not pleasant, but decay happened to everyone. What distinguished Miss Rebecca Henson was the part that did not happen to everyone, and Edward could not help but wonder how one who believes in some manner of Providence might justify this. Was it because Henson was a hooker? Because she was some faceless woman carrying the child of some faceless man? Or was she being punished for something else, something he couldn't see in the photo, something that warranted punishing her child, too?

The incision began just below Henson's sternum and ran down the front of her body. Her skin was baggy and flopped back like the slack opening of a leather satchel. Within were the rotting remnants of some loops of viscera, but Henson's body was more dark, bloated cavern than anything else. Like a big, festering mouth.

"Autopsy says she was dead for, perhaps, two days before she was found. That's a lot of time for things to go missing in the river, but the coroner was able to distinguish, at least, what was deliberately removed." Mustang pulled another photograph from his folder and passed it to Havoc. "That's a close up of a series of ligaments that were removed from Henson's pelvis. The lacerations are clean and only slightly frayed, which led the coroner to believe that this was done by a scalpel."

Edward held the photograph he was looking at toward Lieutenant Ross, who put up her hand and shook her head. She had already seen it. Instead, he pushed the photo toward Havoc and held out his hand for the next one.

When Edward got the next image from Havoc, he sat back in his seat and examined. On a white background, three small bundles of greyish, striated flesh rested. They looked like bands, and, indeed, both ends of the bands were cleanly cut. Edward set the photograph down and said, "What was done with a scalpel, General?"

Mustang leaned back against his desk and tossed the file down. "If it had to do with her pregnancy, it's been removed." Mustang pointed toward the photo before Edward. "Those ligaments once anchored Henson's uterus to her pelvis. It's all been cut out. And every woman in this file has had the same treatment."

The sound of Lieutenant Havoc's chair scraping the floorboards rent the weighty quiet after Mustang's words. Without preamble, Havoc left the room, slamming the door behind him. His hurried, heavy footfalls echoed back to them.

They were silent in the wake of Havoc's exit. Edward made eye contact with Mustang, whose face was blank and hard.

Ross rose to her feet. Her mouth was set, and she shook her head a little as she blew out a curt sigh. "Permission to speak freely, sir," she said to Mustang.

"Granted," he replied.

Her scowl split open wide. With the whites of her eyes standing out stark in her face and her brows knit tight, she looked from one superior to the other and said shrilly, "You're both monsters, you know that?"

That was a great deal more personal than Edward had anticipated. He put his hands down on the desk hard and stood. "If he wants to be taken off the case, then he can be. It's not even our goddamn case yet!"

"That's not the point, Ed!"

"Then what is? Do we want to be professionals about this or do we want to get irrational?"

"The point is I never should have found this case," Ross said, the anger in her voice tempered, turned inward. She crossed her arms over her chest and walked toward the large window behind Mustang's desk. She kept her back to her superiors and said, "We shouldn't take this case. _No one_ should take this case. It shouldn't exist."

Edward fell back into his chair and pushed away from his desk. He propped his feet on the desk and knotted up his arms tight. Ross was letting her emotions slip out of control, Edward knew, and, therefore, he shouldn't take it personally, but being called a monster during a conversation about cutting fetuses out of prostitutes was crossing the threshold to a door Edward did not want to open with her.

Mustang sighed. "The case does exist. That's not going to change. Despite your and Havoc's sentimentality," Ross turned the most sincere frown on Mustang that he had ever seen on the woman, "All we can do now is make sure the right people with the right equipment take over. Someone has to take it, and it should be us."

Lieutenant Ross glared at Mustang out of the side of her eye and made a knife-life gesture with her right hand, slicing through the air. "With all due respect, sir—"

"Are you going to be able to handle this or not, Lieutenant?" Mustang asked. While the question was certainly demeaning, Edward could hear the concern behind it. This was the cruelest case to cross the desks of the Double-A in quite some time. If they were going to investigate it, Mustang was going to need stolid back up.

Ross clearly did not hear the reason behind Mustang's question. "Tell me you'd pursue this case, General, if Captain Hawkeye were here."

The silence fell like the weighted curtain from a proscenium. Edward did not know much about Hawkeye's transfer, but he could tell that there, clearly, was a great deal more to it than he thought. The ire on Mustang's face was a different manner of ire than Edward had seen in the past. And Edward had seen all sorts of shades of Mustang's anger. Not this one, though. This was mingled with shock. This one was cold and personal and livid. He hoped never to see it again.

"You are dismissed, Lieutenant Ross," Mustang ground out.

Ross gave Mustang a hard look, one that seemed to repeat the question with all the layered implications that Edward did not understand. She tore her eyes away, stormed toward her desk, snatched up her coat, and left the office.

As Ross exited, she pushed past Havoc. He pressed himself to the side of the doorway to make room for Ross, who made no sign of seeing him there. He watched her go, a little flustered by her haste, and came back to his desk.

"Are you all right, Lieutenant?" Mustang asked flatly.

"Had to go vomit, sir, but I'm fine," Havoc answered as he sank into the chair at his desk. He fished around in his pocket and produced a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. When he felt Mustang and Edward's gaze, Havoc looked up. "I'm fine, sir," he repeated and lit a cigarette between his lips.

"Good," Mustang said as he came around his desk and gathered up his coat, "Because we begin investigating this case today. It's in General Berman's office right now, but I'm going to fix that while you two go meet with the coroner."

"It's not our case, General," Edward reminded him.

"Pay him off if you have to," Mustang said as he buttoned the front of his uniform coat and straightened his sleeves, "But I want you personally, Ed, to get a good look at those corpses." Mustang's single-eyed gaze fell hard on Edward.

Ed held it for a moment, but he knew, for a variety of reasons, that he would not win this one. "Fine," he muttered. He knew that Mustang knew that he was the only one there qualified to find out what they needed to find out from those bodies. And he fucking hated him for it.

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The County Coroner's Office was one of a handful of forensic agencies in a single building downtown. Edward had always gotten the impression that while all the investigatory legwork was done out of Central Headquarters—they were, after all, the men with all the funding and the matching outfits and the memberships to the on-campus gym, so they, therefore, did the best with the inevitable media coverage that came with large-scale investigations—all the investigatory clean up was done out of the Carther Building on the corner of College and Broadway. If you did not work out of the Investigations Bureau or in the Carther Building itself, you would have never heard of it.

The building had no signage on it. It did not have the showy grandeur of all the other military-affiliated structures—no columns or verandas or sun-soaked porticos. Carther was brown-ish and stucco. The windows were tall and lined with a sort of dark film that kept them smudged black mirrors to anyone on the outside.

Havoc and Edward stood outside the car, parallel-parked on the street because among the other absent accoutrements, the Cather Building lacked a parking lot.

"You okay?" Edward asked as they lingered, side by side, hands deeply pocketed and eyes trained up at the building before them.

"Don't worry about me," Havoc replied. "Along with my breakfast, I left that thin skin at headquarters."

"Good," Edward replied.

They remained a minute or so longer, neither making any move toward the building.

"What are you waiting for?" Havoc asked.

"I was following you."

"I thought I was following you."

Edward and Havoc turned and looked at each other simultaneously.

"I really don't want to go in there," Edward said as he pulled his gaze back toward Carther.

Havoc squinted up at the sun glinting off the windows of higher floors. He sighed, "Me neither." And together, they headed for the entrance.

The vestibule within was short and narrow and ended with an older woman at a receptionist's desk. She flipped through a rolodex with her left hand and fluffed her cotton-candy textured hair with the other. As they entered the vestibule, Edward quickly and surreptitiously snagged Havoc's sleeve and pulled him around next to him to make it look like they were both examining a framed poster describing the features of integrity.

"Obstacle one," Edward muttered and reached out to fiddle with some brochures in wire racks.

"The broad," Havoc replied lowly.

Edward watched her out of the side of his eye. She did not seem to have noticed them despite there being no one else in the hall. "Sic her," he said.

Havoc scrunched up his face. "What the hell does that mean?"

"_Charm_ her," Edward whispered exasperatedly.

"You know what really cramps my charm-factor?" Havoc asked. Ed furrowed his brow. "_This_," Havoc hissed and waved his left hand in front of his face. His gold wedding band glinted in the incandescent light overhead. "Not to mention she's old enough to be my mom."

Edward snatched Havoc's hand and slammed it down. He checked the receptionist to see if she had noticed, but she had not. "You don't have to gesticulate wildly with your left hand, do you? Look, it's this or we blow our cash on her," Edward snapped and then added, "And I outrank you."

Havoc scowled at Edward and made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. In brusque motions, Havoc popped the collar of his coat, adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves, and ran a hand through his hair.

"Excuse me, Miss," Havoc said as he approached the desk. Ed watched him put his left elbow on the counter and lean forward. Havoc hooked his right thumb in a belt loop, effectively pulling his overcoat back to reveal his blue uniform underneath.

"Can I help you?" the woman asked, her voice the kind of gravel Havoc could expect in ten years if Amity didn't force him to quit smoking.

"My associate and I are trying to find Mr. Conner. Is he in today?"

Edward picked up a flier on government funded whatevers and pretended to scan it.

"Do you have an appointment?"

Havoc chuckled, looked away casually. When he swayed his gaze back to her, he was wearing the most potent smile in his arsenal. "No, no, I don't. In fact, I'm free all day until... well, what time do you get off?"

The woman behind the counter gave a coy smile and refluffed her hair. "Well," she said, her voice a rumble deep in her blackened throat. "Dr. Conner is in today, Bright Eyes. Go through that door to the left, take the stairs down, and follow the signs to the morgue."

Edward was already escaping toward the door to the left of the receptionist's desk when Havoc said, "Thanks, darling," and sauntered away.

Once they were safe in the stairwell, Edward asked, "What did you call her?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Havoc answered, his voice cracking a little.

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Edward pushed open the door to the morgue and was suddenly struck by the grotesque irony of the baby-blue tiles that lined the walls. The floor was bare concrete and gently sloped toward a grate in the floor—for easy clean up, Edward thought. Havoc slunk in behind him, uncharacteristically quiet. They entered a cold, wide hallway of a room that, up ahead of them, turned left and hid someone working around the corner. Edward could hear the shuffling of feet and the hollow sound of metal on metal, all of which stopped suddenly when Havoc closed the door behind him loudly.

"Someone there?" a voice called from the other end of the room.

Edward walked farther into the room, past the empty gurneys that lined the walls. "Dr. Conner?" he called.

"Yes, yes, come on back," the voice called. The juxtaposition of the warm welcome in the doctor's voice and the sheer morgue-ness of his surroundings made Edward's stomach clench.

Edward glanced over his shoulder at Havoc, who looked significantly less creeped out than Edward did. They trod toward the back of the room, Havoc a few paces behind Ed. As they turned the corner, Edward saw a short, middle-aged man striding toward them, tugging off thick, black gloves that came up to his elbows. The light reflected off Dr. Conner's head like the hood of a car.

"Well, well," Conner said, tucking his gloves in the ties of his apron. "It's been quite some since I've had Blue Backs in my neck of the basement." He came to stand directly in front of Edward, who noticed an odd smudge on the Doctor's glasses and couldn't help wondering what dead body had gotten what fluid on them.

Before Edward could say anything, Conner pointed at Havoc. "I know you, son," he said. "You're the soldier that dragged that monster down here, asked me to do something with it."

Edward cast a curious and rather accusatory glance at Havoc over his shoulder.

"The hyena-pig?" Havoc offered to jog Edward's memory.

Ah, yes, how could Edward forget the hyena-pig chimera that had taken up residence in the meat-packing plant outside of the city? The one they were called in to remove.

"This guy," Conner continued, gesturing to Havoc, "drags this _thing_ down into my morgue, and I said to him, I says, 'I'm a mortician not a veterinarian.' And he says to me, 'Good thing it's already dead!'" Conner bent forward and slapped his own knee hard. "It's already dead! I tell him, then he must be in the right place!" Edward let the Doctor go on guffawing until he was empty and just breathing hard. "So what can I do for you gentlemen?"

"I was hoping to get a look at Pyrrha Pulliam," Edward said.

Conner nodded. "I've got a lot of those girls in here still, but if you've seen one, you've seen them all."

"The killer was that meticulous?" Edward asked, grimacing.

"Oh, sure," Conner replied. "Practically surgical." He paused and narrowed his eyes. "You know, General Berman usually gives me a call before he sends boys down here."

Edward resisted the urge to look over his shoulder at Havoc. "We're not here under Berman's orders," he said.

Conner put his hands on his hips. "Oh, really? Then under whose orders are you?" he asked, putting on an official-sounding voice to mock Edward's. When Edward hesitated, Conner looked to his right, toward a wall of small, square doors. "You know, it gets real hard to remember what body's behind what door," he said. "My old memory doesn't work as well as it used to."

Keeping his face blank, Edward slipped his hand into the inner pocket of his coat. Between his index and middle fingers, Edward pinched the metal clip cinched around a wad of bills. He brandished the notes to the Doctor. "Does this help?" Just holding the money, freshly withdrawn from his research account, just suggesting it to the man made Edward feel like a scumbag.

The Doctor, however, did not seem to have that hang up. He plucked the money from Ed's hand and stuffed it into the breast pocket in his apron. "You're in luck, friend," Conner said. "I've started keeping a log of who's where for moments just like these." He turned and headed toward the wall of doors. "Step into my office," he said and laughed at his own gruesome humor.

Edward felt acutely aware of Havoc's presence to his left. Typically, when he and Havoc were on assignment, there was a reciprocity to their interactions. More than once, Edward had been grateful to have an alchemy layman as a partner: he himself could only think like an alchemist, which was, in many ways, like a criminal mastermind. Of course, the occasional villain they pursued was one; however, more frequently, their target was not. And Havoc, for all the other assets he brought to the table, had the ability to think like a normal guy. That combined with a mastery of marksmanship Edward would need another decade to achieve made Havoc downright indispensable.

Now, however, Havoc was a silent specter of himself.

"Little Girl Number Five," Conner said as he opened a particular door in the wall.

A gust of cold air blew out of the opening, and Edward held his breath until it passed. Conner reached into the hatch and pulled out a gurney on tracks. It trundled out, and the doctor stopped it once the body on the stretcher was just over halfway out of the cooler.

Dr. Conner stood on one side of the body while Ed and Havoc stood on the other, and when Edward allowed himself to breath again, he could smell refrigerant and river water.

"There are a few things right off that bat that are pretty remarkable about her," Conner said as he folded down the drape over the body. She lay there, revealed to the thighs, bloated and pale and sliced open from sternum to groin. Conner had, in a gesture of generosity Edward would not have expected from an eccentric like the doctor, folded the loose skin over her belly closed. "Typically, when you fish a prostitute out of the river," Conner said as he pulled his gloves back on, "she either has been strangled or has suffered head trauma. Miss Pulliam, however, died of neither." He pointed at her long, white throat. "You'd see contusions around her neck or fractures in her skull."

"What did she die of?" Edward asked. He schooled his features, kept his face blank, and willed himself not to check on Havoc.

"My guess?" Conner offered. "Her lungs were full of water when she was pulled out. I'd say she was unconscious when they threw her into the river, and she drowned about as peacefully as a person can."

It didn't bring Edward any comfort.

Pyrrha Pulliam looked to be about sixteen or seventeen. She had long, dull black hair that splayed out around her head. Her eyelashes were dark and long and stood out over the vivid redness around her closed eyes. She could have been pretty with her soft, blue mouth and high cheekbones.

"I'm going to assume that, if you're willing to pay for it, you've seen the uterine ligaments?"

"Yes," was all Edward could bring himself to say.

"Well, come around this side, and I'll show you something," Conner said, gesturing for Edward to come stand by his left. Ed complied. "When I said it was surgical, I meant it. Take a look at this." Conner folded back the skin over the body, opening the abdominal cavity.

Edward had seen dead bodies. Plenty of them. Even some that were rather cut up, as well. And while this one was a woman whose baby had been ripped out of her, Edward forced himself to believe that it was no different than any of the rest.

With one hand, Conner peeled back sheets of skin and fat and fascia, and before Edward was entirely sure what he was looking at, there were the yellowy-gray peaks of the bowl of a pelvis nestled in dead, red flesh.

"This right here," Conner said, pointing to a joint in the most anterior bones in the pelvis, "Is the most telling part. What it's telling, I'll leave up to you gentlemen."

"What am I looking at?" Edward asked, his voice steady and schooled.

Conner ran his index finger over a cluster of rubbery-looking bands that attached to the crest in the pelvis. "Look at how this is cut." It was a clean, angled slice. No sawing or hacking. Conner pushed the flesh he was holding back to free of up his hand. "Let's say I'm a right-handed lunatic who happens to know something about obstetrics." With his left hand, Conner pantomimed gripping something wide and round deep in the pelvis. He went through the motions of pulling it back and away from the bone and then, miming a scalpel with his right hand, he cut at the ligament in clean, even strokes.

"It's telling me," Edward said as Conner folded up the cavern in the body, "That we don't have a garden-variety butcher on our hands."

"That's for damn sure," Conner said.

A thought occurred to Edward, and he started to reach for the closest arm to flip it over, but paused, thinking better of it. "Have you noticed any puncture wounds on the arms of the bodies? Like an IV drip insertion?"

"I checked for that, actually, but didn't see anything." He paused abruptly and held up his right index finger. "Oh, I almost forgot!" he said. "Now this part is just odd."

_Because no other part of this strikes you as odd, Doctor?_ Ed thought but let Conner go about his business anyway.

"Another consistency among these girls," he began and reopened the end of incision in the body below the sternum. Just under a layer of skin and fat, Conner revealed a large grey-purple organ shaped like a kidney bean. "Normally, you've got a liver in the way here, but the fishies took care of that one," he informed Edward. "They wouldn't touch this, though," he said and gave the organ a poke. "This is her stomach here, and in a normal body, it has a soft, rubbery texture to it. But this girl, along with all the others, has hard lumps in her stomach. It's like it's ossified in part. Here, touch it and see."

"I'll take your word for it," Edward said, knitting his brows and drawing back a little.

"Suit yourself," Conner said. "If this girl had come in with the rest of her GI tract, I bet you would find ossified patches. Any part of an intestine I've pulled out of these girls has been like that. Even their esophagi." Conner let the layers of flesh fall back into place with a slurpy sliding sound. He put his fists on his hips and turned to Edward. "Now what the hell could have happened to these girls to make their digestive tracts turn to bone?"

"Isn't there a degenerative disease that turns soft tissue to bone?" Edward offered, though he knew how far-fetched that was.

Conner cocked an eyebrow. "Don't try to blow sunshine up my skirt, son. Do you know how rare that condition is? And even if there were a particular syndrome that exclusively targeted females, you wouldn't live to be old enough to make money the way these girls did."

Edward looked at the Doctor for a long time, trying to determine if he had any theories that he was not sharing. Certainly, Edward had one in particular, but he was going to save that one for Mustang.

He blew out a sigh and shifted his gaze up toward Havoc, now across the body from him. The Lieutenant's face was stony, his eyes wide and jaw set. He gave Edward no signal one way or the other, but Edward had a feeling it was time they left.

"That'll be all for today, Dr. Conner. Thanks for your help," Edward said.

Conner slid Pyrrah Pulliam back into the cooler and closed the door. "Pleasure doing business with you gentlemen," he said with a smug grin. "Come back any time."

Edward scoffed. Right. He'd be back next fiscal year when his discretionary fund was replenished. He gave Conner a nod and then turned to leave. Before he and Havoc could round the corner in the morgue, the Doctor stopped them.

"I've got a gift for the road for you," he said and disappeared behind the door of a metal cabinet against the tiled wall. When he reappeared, he had something closed in his fist. He shut the doors to the cabinet with his elbow and tossed the contents of his hand toward his departing guests.

Edward caught the object and examined it. Conner had thrown him a small glass vial, about as long as Edward's palm. He pinched one end and held it up to the light.

"Scraped that out of a hooker's descending colon," Conner said.

Inside the vial was a fine, pinkish-white powder. Edward gave the vial a tap with his index finger, watched the powder tumble over itself, and pocketed it.

x

x

x

When Havoc and Edward returned to the Double-A, the office was vacant, the door shut. Edward felt a certain degree of succor from being back in the familiar comfort of his own territory. Both men entered in silence and sank into their desk chairs side-by-side. Edward watched Havoc bow his head and rub at his eyes with the heels of his palms. He wanted to ask the Lieutenant if he were all right, but he knew, regardless of the answer, Havoc would be more annoyed than comforted.

"You were notably quiet in the morgue," Edward said, watching his feet as he propped them up on his desk.

"I hate that fucker," Havoc said, for a moment letting his Eastern, backcountry accent—a dialect Edward's mother had gently cultivated out of him—slip through. "It's one thing to be comfortable with death. It's another to be irreverent."

Edward reached into his pocket and pulled out the vial Conner had given him. He dropped his feet to the floor and set the vial in the center of his desk.

"He might be an asshole," Edward said, "But he's good at what he does."

Edward watched that vial, watched the powder twitch as it settled in its new location. Already, he was envisioning the equipment he was going to have to purchase that afternoon to furnish a laboratory in his basement. Along with all the samples of red water he had waiting for him, Edward was generating a list of tests he would need to run on this powder. He had a strong suspicion about the identity of the substance, but a part of him hoped he was wrong.

"You know what that is, don't you?" Havoc asked, nodding toward the vial.

Edward started and sat back. He had been gazing at the vial for a moment before Havoc spoke.

"You know why those girls' insides were turning to bone, and you didn't want to say anything to that crazy fucking coroner."

"I've got an idea, yeah, but I wouldn't say I—"

"Bullshit, Ed," Havoc snapped, shaking his head. "You know what that is because you know what all of this has got to do with alchemy. I thought I was going to figure it out when we saw that body, but I still have no idea what's got you and Mustang sniffing around this one." Havoc paused, waited for Edward to make any kind of motion toward filling him in. "And you're not going to tell me, are you?" he asked, shaking his head.

Edward blew out a sigh. Boy, was he sick of having this conversation. "I don't know for sure about any of this, and I don't want to jump to conclusions."

Havoc stood up suddenly, the feet of his chair screeching across the floor. "Fucking alchemists," he muttered. "It's always cloak and dagger with you bastards."

Edward did not often find himself in situations where he could simply resolve not to get offended, but on this occasion... well, they had just spent their morning looking at an eviscerated sixteen-year-old girl. He would let Havoc off the hook for this one. In response, Edward shrugged. He couldn't really argue; the biggest assholes he ever knew were alchemists.

"You can't even tell me why the General singled out this case at all?" Havoc asked, spreading his hands.

Edward thought for a moment and said, "Have you ever met a female alchemist?"

Havoc considered the question. "Never. Didn't think the military permitted it."

"Exactly," Edward said. "They're terrifying. Too powerful to control, and they learn too fast. You've just got to hope that they're on your side and then never piss them off. I haven't done the research into it, but there's something, I guess, about women that just... lends itself to alchemy." Edward shrugged. He had suspected it had something to do with the mother-creator dynamic inherent in women, but it wasn't a subject he thought of much considering he could count on one hand the number of female alchemists he'd met.

"So when you learn about somebody chopping up hookers for their lady parts, the first thing you think is alchemy?"

While that was not exactly how Ed would have worded it, he answered, "In a nutshell, yes."

Just then, the door to their office, which Havoc had quietly closed behind him with the intention of wringing some answers out of his smaller, younger superior, burst open and slammed hard against the wall. Edward leapt forward and snatched up the vial and stuffed it into his pocket. Havoc jumped and spun around to see General Mustang storm into the room, uniform coat draped over his right arm. Edward and Havoc remained still, not bothering to salute, and watched Mustang approach his desk. He came up around the side and set his hands down on the surface. For a moment, he stood still, his head bowed down, his chin almost touching his chest.

In an eruption of motion, Mustang stood up straight, spun around, and threw his coat down hard in his desk chair. "_Goddammit!_" he barked.

"We've been busted," Havoc stated knowingly.

Mustang turned on his subordinates. "Some secretary from Carther called Berman's office just as I was leaving and asked why he hadn't cleared two soldiers to inspect the latest body. I just spent the last twenty minutes getting ripped a new one by Lieutenant General Beryl while that little shit Berman shook his head and simpered."

Edward crossed his arms over his chest and watched his desk.

Havoc breathed a hard sigh, looked Mustang in the eye, and said, "Sorry, sir."

The General shook his head and rubbed his good eye. "It's not your fault. I shouldn't have sent you down there in the first place. It was precipitous and stupid." He ran a hand through his hair and blew out a short breath. With his face turned down, Edward could not read his expression, couldn't guess whether Mustang was about to tell them to drop the case or not. Ed closed his fist around the vial in his pocket. "Now tell me," Mustang said to Havoc, "I didn't just get my first lecture on impulsivity in two decades for nothing." The Lieutenant turned to Edward, who was still hunkered down in his desk chair.

Edward pulled the vial from his pocket and tossed it to Mustang, who, despite having no depth perception, snatched it deftly out of the air. "The hell is this?" he asked, peering down at his palm.

"The coroner said he scraped it out of the intestines of one of the bodies. He said it occurred in all five of them," Ed answered.

Mustang switched on his desk lamp and held it up to the bulb. "Any guesses as to what it is?" he asked.

Edward felt the pressure of Havoc's gaze on him. "I've got an idea."

Mustang looked up at Ed and waited. "Are you going to tell me, or do I have to ask nice?" he said mordantly.

This was, Edward knew, one step below being ordered to disclose all he knew. "An insoluble white powder in a body? Fifty bucks says it's calcite."

Mustang furrowed his brow. He looked down at the powder then back up at Edward. "This came out of a hooker?" he clarified, holding the vial up in his right hand. Ed nodded. "Why the hell would these girls have calcium deposits in them?"

Edward stared so hard at Mustang that his eyes started to hurt. He knew that if his mail from Russell Tringham was being intercepted from within military headquarters, now was not the time to discuss it and the office was not the place.

Mustang must have gotten the message because he checked his desk clock and declared, "That's enough for one day, don't you think?" He then slid the two files from his inbox onto his desk and opened the first one.

"Sir?" Havoc began.

Mustang scanned the first page in the file. "You, Havoc, have a pregnant wife to attend to," he said as he scribbled his signature at the bottom of the page. He open the second file and did the same while telling Edward, "You, Fullmetal, need a leg tune-up. And I," Mustang clapped down his pen with finality and looked up at his subordinates, "Am a lazy asshole." He dropped both files into his outbox and stood up.

Edward took the hint. As they began filing out a the office, Mustang snagged Edward by the elbow and said with a false sort of warmth, "You want a beer?"

Edward looked at his pocket watch. "It's ten o'clock in the morning, Mustang."

"Great, I'll buy you a beer."

x

x

x

While Edward was grateful that Mustang offered him a ride—Winry had the car that day—he was feeling the dark, creeping tendrils of regret when they turned into a paved lot without any overhead lights or painted parking stalls. The creepers really took root, however, when Mustang walked him around the front of the building and they paused under a large, pink and yellow sign bearing in embellished, curvy lettering "The Honeypot."

"You took me to a brothel?" Edward asked shrilly as they stood on the sidewalk.

The pretense of cheer had vanished from Mustang as soon as they had left headquarters, and he answered flatly, "It's a safe house."

"The _house_ part I'll buy, but unless the definition of _safe_ has changed since the last time I used it, you're totally crossing a line right now, Mustang."

"And here I thought getting Miss Rockbell to pay attention to you would compel you to grow up a little."

"That's not funny!" Edward squawked. "And it's none of your goddamn business!"

Mustang chuckled. "I'm only joking," he said. "I know the management. We can talk about the case here without being overheard."

"You mean _know_ in the old-timey sense or _know_ in a normal-person-who-doesn't-go-to-a-whorehouse-during-work-hours sense?"

"That's disgusting, Ed," Mustang snapped, glaring at his subordinate. He was quiet for a moment and then looked toward the building. He added in a tone of resignation, "This is my mother's establishment."

Mustang headed for the door, but Edward was too stunned to move. "You what now?" he asked.

"You heard me the first time," Mustang replied darkly without looking over his shoulder.

Ed was too shocked to laugh, too shocked to generate the perfect, stinging retort that the situation truly deserved. It was just too good. "I'm going to keep this one in my back pocket, Mustang," Edward said as he strolled forward and caught up with the General. "We're even now for that carrying-me business."

Mustang opened the door for Ed and as he passed, said, "Fair enough."

The interior of the building was spacious and well lit from a row of windows high in the street-facing wall. To the left of the entrance was a long, curved bar, behind which an older, doughy woman sat counting bills and making notations in a ledger, and on the right, a generous seating area opened, filled with comfortable sectionals and overstuffed chairs. Three or four young women lounged in various poses on the couches. Not in a sexy, scarlet woman way, but in a I-fell-asleep-here-last-night way.

The woman behind the counter looked up and gave a lopsided smile that didn't touch her eyes but did make her jowls jiggle.

She plucked the long stem of her cigarette out of her mouth and said, "Roy," in something that might, in a less friendly world, sound like maternal warmth.

"Chris," Roy said, smiling. He led Edward over to the bar, and they took stools next to each other. The bar looked clean enough, but Edward couldn't shake the feeling that he might catch the clap if he touched anything. He set his hands in his lap and made as little contact as possible.

"You're here awfully early," the woman noted as she flicked the ash from her cigarette. "And you brought a friend? I doubt any of the girls are up yet." She put the stem between her teeth and went back to counting notes.

Edward felt his face heat up, and he tried to slump below the bar. Mustang caught him by the arm, though, and jerked him back up. "We're here on business," Mustang said. "Is it too early for a couple drinks?"

She grinned and said without looking up from her fingers adroitly riffling money, "No such thing." Once she was done tallying, recording, and stashing her cash, she reached under the bar and produced two brown bottles, both of which she opened with her teeth. Edward cringed.

The Madam dropped the drinks in front of her visitors and leaned her elbow against the bar. "Tell me, Roy," she said and pointed to Edward, "This isn't an illegitimate son of yours, is it? You know those programs are popping up all over the city, trying to reunite sons and fathers."

Edward sprayed beer all over the bar.

Perhaps under different circumstances, Mustang would have let out a belly laugh. Instead, he snorted and shook his head. "No," he said. "This is a colleague of mine, Major Elric."

Edward choked again. "Don't tell her my name!" he hissed, earning himself a merciless kick in the flesh and bone shin.

"A colleague? From headquarters?" she asked incredulously. The Madam sized up Edward and concluded, "They're getting 'em while they're young these days."

"Can you do me a favor?" Mustang said, sidestepping any preamble.

"Turn up the gramophone and disperse anyone who comes in?" she said after a long pull from her cigarette stem.

"You know the drill," Mustang said with an odd tone of gratitude that Edward had never heard come out of the man.

The Madam stood up with some effort and waddled toward the end of the bar. She opened the hatch and made her way toward the gramophone where it sat on a dark, heavy table. Before she dropped the needle, she turned to Mustang and called out, "You know, we just finished the opium den in the basement. First visit is on me." With that, she started the music, a sultry-voiced woman over a big band, and waddled off into the backroom.

After a long silence, Edward turned to Mustang. "This explains a lot about you, General."

"You know one of the benefits of subordinates with automail?" Mustang said, sipping his beer. "They always carry perfectly good bludgeons with them. All I have to do is rip it out of the socket first."

Edward gave an _ah-ha!_ sort of laugh. "_You_ brought me here, General."

"Which, I hope you realize, reflects the seriousness of our situation."

Edward looked over his shoulder at the room around him. The women in the lounge were still beauty-sleeping away. Madam Christmas was gone. No haggard-looking men were staggering down the stairs from the balcony above. "What did you get from Berman?"

"Almost nothing," Mustang confessed. "He made it very clear that this was his case, and if he's willing to drag Lieutenant General Beryl into it, he isn't kidding. I don't know if he thinks I'm an idiot or the Double-A is a joke." Mustang paused to take a draw from his beer. With the bottle still in hand, Mustang wiped his mouth with the back of his fingers. "He told me not to get involved in this one. He made it sound like a threat."

"You don't think he's being territorial because he just transferred here from Eastern?" Edward offered while he picked at the label on his bottle with his thumbnail.

Mustang let out a bark of a laugh. "That's uncharacteristically generous of you, Ed."

"I just don't want him complicating things. They're complicated enough."

"Well, they're going to stay complicated. If one officious secretary can undermine this entire investigation, we've got our work cut out for us. What did you get from the coroner?" Mustang pulled the vial of powder from his pocket and looked at it in his palm.

"I got that working with dead people makes you into one creepy fuck," Edward answered. "And, apparently, not above bribery."

"That's good news."

Edward snorted at that. The fact that one corrupt mortician could be considered good news, he thought, did not bode well for them. "A couple things," Edward began. "Whoever is killing these women is right-handed, dabbles in obstetrics, and, most importantly, is goal-oriented."

"How do you mean?"

"I mean, this guy has more than an MO. He has a procedure. The coroner said it was practically surgical, and from the looks of things, he's right. I've seen murder victims, and this didn't look like one. This looked like a patient." Edward shook his head and willed away the girl's face from his memory. Her cold, pale, swollen face. "I checked for something like IV punctures, but there weren't any in the usual locations."

Mustang downed a long swallow from his drink and set down the empty bottle. "They didn't look like patients in the photographs," he said. "They looked like livestock."

"What?" Edward hissed.

"From the pictures and what you've told me, it sounds like someone is harvesting from these women."

"Jesus Christ," Edward swore, dropping his elbow hard onto the bar. He leaned his face into his hand and rubbed his eyes. "That doesn't explain the white stuff."

Mustang hummed in thought and picked up the vial. He furrowed his brow suddenly and jumped up from his stool.

"What are you doing?" Edward asked, dropping his hand from his face.

The General followed the length of the bar, lifted the hatch, and walked around back. "A little experiment," he answered as he came to stand across from Edward. With very careful fingers, Mustang pried the cork from the top of the vial and tapped a small amount of the powder into a pile on the bar.

Edward watched his superior bend down behind the bar and riffle through something he couldn't see. The stale smell of an icebox struck Edward along with the sharp clink of glass bottles bumping together. When Mustang stood back up, he was holding half a lemon and a knife. He cut a wedge out of the lemon and set down the rest.

"You know what's a really good idea?" Edward said, scooting away from Mustang's experiment.

"What's that?" Mustang asked without looking up from his work. With the lemon wedge hovering over the powder, Mustang squeezed out one, two, three drops of juice. They hit the pile and began to foam and fizzle.

"_Dropping acids onto unknown powders_," Ed snapped.

"I wouldn't call it unknown," Mustang said. "I have a strong inkling."

Edward now dropped his other elbow onto the bar and leaned into both hands. "How did a rube like you ever get your Doctorate?"

Mustang ignored him. "What do you think? Calcium carbonate?"

"Why don't you just try some and see if your indigestion goes away?" Edward suggested sarcastically.

"I suppose I deserved that," Mustang said quickly, "But it worked. We've got a vial of basic, reactive, insoluble white powder that came out of a prostitute."

"So someone is feeding hookers Dr. Pinkerton's Stomach Tabs and taking their babies?" Edward offered. "The body I saw had enough of this stuff in it to leave deposits in the esophagus and stomach. The coroner said that, in the bodies that still had digestive systems, he found calcified lumps throughout."

"You'd have to feed someone crates of stomach tabs to get that reaction."

"Or less of something harder," Edward said.

"Like what?" Mustang asked, "Not to mention why?"

"Like..." Edward began with a furrowed brow, but as a terrible idea dawned on him, his face softened. His eyes widened. His mouth fell open.

Why, he had wondered with Russell, was the red water level dropping so suddenly? Where was that volume of such a noxious liquid going? And why, he wondered now, was the drop in volume concurrent with these murders? "Like limestone."

"Limestone?"

"Dissolved limestone in a medium," Edward said. When he saw Mustang turn his head slightly and narrow his eyes, Edward realized that he was not making the connection. "When I was in Xenotime, Russell Tringham and I found an underground body of red water. Judging by the formations in the walls of the cave, the red water had been at a particular level for a very long time, but something had begun draining it. You don't get caves without dissolved limestone, and you don't get red water without caves. This would be one hell of a coincidence, General."

"Are you suggesting that someone is feeding red water to pregnant women?"

Edward paused for a moment to determine if he were, in fact, asserting that. And he was. "Yes, I am."

Mustang looked down at the bar, his eyes shifting as he thought, and he covered his mouth with his right hand pensively. After a moment, he brought his eyes up to Edward and slid his hand from his mouth. "I don't care what you have to do, Fullmetal. Get Tringham here on the next train from Xenotime."


	11. Murphy's Law

**A/N:** I'm sure many of you were reading this and thinking, "There is just not enough drama in this story. Shit isn't complicated enough for these characters. I wish they were more confused about what is good and right and best. Why the hell is this story called _The Metaphysicist's Club_, anyway?" So I decided to make things more complicated.

**XI. Murphy's Law**

Getting Russell on the next train out of Xenotime was not terribly difficult. Perhaps at first, Russell was reluctant to go. He was in the middle of a big step in his campaign to have the handles removed from city pumps contaminated with red water—it was time for city council elections, and Russell had plotted a small crusade to launch upon the candidates, complete with testimonials from Fletcher Tringham, who was not above a little histrionics to further his brother's cause. Edward explained that the trouble with Xenotime was, you know, problematic and all, but this was bigger than Xenotime. How much bigger? Well, Edward did not explain that, at that moment, he had five dead women potentially poisoned with red water, which would not weigh very well against the 75,000 citizens of Xenotime exposed to small levels of red water every day. But he did explain that he needed someone who knew his way around red water, knew what it looked like and how it behaved.

In the end, Edward had to make a short series of concessions in order to convince Russell to come to Central:

First, Edward had to rattle off some business about Russell being the premier specialist on red water in the country.

Second, Edward had to understand that Russell had his own work to pursue, and pursue it he would while also working with the Central contingent.

Third, Edward would have to house not only Russell but also Fletcher and Fletcher's fiancee, Sophia.

This last one was asking an awful lot. In the few weeks preceding, Winry had ostensibly moved in with Edward and Alphonse. And while she did not take up that much space—and she did laundry regularly!—her energetic presence in the house was, indeed, a presence. She was another body around and, more importantly, she was girl in the brothers' home. And that just changes things.

Winry was, all things considered, a delightful house guest. In the evenings, she did repairs to the toaster, percolator, and stove. She picked up Edward's articles of clothing and belongings as he shed them from the front door to the refrigerator. She packed Alphonse's lunches for him. And on some days, when Edward came home looking particularly haggard, she would greet him at the door with a friendly, _Wow, you look beat, Edward. Do you want a back rub? Or head?_

Gosh, how do you say no to that?

The addition of three more bodies to the equation was going to be a stretch, Edward knew, and in the same conversation in which he unloaded all of the facts of the case up to that point, he also informed Alphonse that the Tringhams and the future Mrs. Tringham were going to be crashing with them for a while. And Alphonse, being Alphonse, told his brother what an absolutely terrible idea that was and that he would be as accommodating as he could be.

The Tringhams and Miss Reynolds arrived in a taxi followed by a truck that Russell had hired to drive all his equipment from the train station to Ed's house. This was quite a relief to Edward, who had been trying to think of some way to get past the military's Accounting Department a suspicious, single, massive withdrawal from his slush fund, which he would subsequently use to furnish his secret basement lab.

Sleeping arrangements came up as soon as Alphonse and Russell brought in Miss Reynold's trunk and dropped it heavily in the foyer.

"I was thinking we'd put Fletcher and Sophia in the guestroom and Russell on the couch," Edward said, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder and up the stairs toward the guestroom down the hall.

Sophia clapped her hands over her cheeks and turned away. Fletcher put his hands on his fiancee's shoulders. "Maybe that's how you do things in Central, Ed, but we have some propriety in Xenotime," Fletcher said, his face flushed. Had Fletcher not seem so sincerely affronted, Edward would have rolled his eyes.

"I thought maybe Miss Winry and I could share a room," Sophia offered, still pink as a peony under her hands. "Like a slumber party."

Edward and Winry, who were standing side by side at the foot of the stairs, looked at each other, the same _oh, shit_ expression mirrored on their faces. Alphonse snorted very loudly and slapped a hand over his mouth, earning himself a combination of glares and puzzled expressions for it.

"Oh," began Winry, who was the only one who could handle this with some delicacy, and she gave it the old college try. "Well, you see, I don't have my own room. Edward and I share one."

Edward felt the impulse to sling an arm around Winry and declare that they have sex, really good sex, and lots of it. And the Tringhams and the future Princess Tringham would probably have to listen to them. So too bad. But he restrained himself. Instead, while Sophia fled the room in mortification, Edward resolved that she would have the guestroom, Fletcher would take the couch, and Russell would get a pallet on the floor of the parlor.

This solution was, ultimately, ideal. Fletcher did not look like he could climb the stairs regularly.

Almost immediately, Edward, Russell, and Alphonse began unpacking Russell's equipment—which included another generation of red water samples—and setting up in the cellar. The space was definitely not ideal for their purposes. Xenotime's Occupational Safety and Health Administration had declared that, while red water could be bottled and studied in a lab, it would require a litany of precautions. Russell explained the ventilated hood in his lab and full-coverage gear mandated to his research team as they unpacked microscopes and Bunsen burners in the dim, windowless single room of the basement. The floor was bare earth. They had to pipe in electricity from the hallway above. The nearest source of running water was the half bathroom up the stairs and down the hall.

Russell drove a heavy-duty screw hook into a joist overhead and hung the oil lamp they had been using from it. Lengthening the wick as much as he could, he turned a circle around the room. The yellow, dancing light plastered harsh shadows of their equipment on the walls around them. Edward had, a day or so prior, raided the local thrift stores for every table he could find, and the perimeter of the room was lined with tables of all different dimensions, some of them as low as mid-thigh and others stopping at his solar plexus. The tables created some work space for them, and every stretch of flat surface was occupied by the usual lab apparatuses. It did not look too terribly much like a laboratory, but it certainly looked like some manner of furtive operation, and that was half of the goal for which they strove.

"Do you think it will do?" Alphonse asked as he and Edward stood by the stairs, admiring their labors.

"It's going to have to," Ed replied, dusting his hands off. "Takes you back a bit, doesn't it?" Edward gambled.

Alphonse chuckled. "Not really," he replied. "That's a mistake you only have to make once."

Edward looked at his brother despite the dissenting faction in him that told him not to, not to confirm that it happened or to remember. He took him in, considered the now. Alphonse had hit a growth spurt between sixteen and seventeen like puberty was a speeding train and he was a flock of sheep strolling across the tracks. The kid was taller than Ed now, with square shoulders and a frame made out of bundled wire. While Edward had gotten their father's broader, sturdier build, Alphonse had taken their mother's side of things, all altitude and sinew. Al kept his hair in a shaggy, sand-colored mop that worked only because he had that perpetual babyface, round features and big eyes the color of a storm.

It wasn't perpetual, Edward amended. He could take _perpetual_ for granted, but Edward knew that Alphonse, who often seemed as reliable as the sunrise, had not always been as such. It was a hard lesson to learn at ten-years-old, that sometimes people go. Sometimes, it's your fault. And sometimes, you take the people most important to you and make oblations of them to an impartial deity who doesn't notice you and doesn't care and doesn't exist at all.

What the hell was he thinking, building a homemade lab, dragging in civilians, implicating his brother? More than implicating, he thought as he heard Fletcher shuffling, cane in hand, across the floorboards overhead.

"We should start cataloging the red water samples," Alphonse offered, gesturing to the two wooden crates they had set in on the floor by the door.

"I agree," Russell said. He reached up and turned the knob on the lantern once more, pushing the wick as long as it would go. "Enough homesteading."

Edward wanted to tell Russell to fuck off, point an accusing finger and ask him how dare he do this when Fletcher was right there, shambling across the parlor with the help of a woman. Had he no shame? Did he not carry around the same bale of guilt on his back that Edward did? Did he nightmare the moment when Fletcher took, full force, a geyser of red water like Edward nightmared that inclement night in the basement? But Russell and Al were already prying the the lid off the oldest crate with a crowbar, and Edward knew it would take a handle of whiskey, an empty house, and an anniversary before he would ever pose those questions to Russell.

That evening, all six of them crowded around the kitchen table for an inaugural dinner of thick beef stew, crusty bread, and beers. Sophia took tentative sips from her drink while Fletcher thought better of drinking and had Winry's homemade iced tea instead.

It felt very comfortable with all of them together despite their rocky start. Sophia, apparently, had deigned to befriend Winry, and they sat side by side at the round table, slipping off into separate conversation frequently. Edward evaluated the set up from his arc of the dinner table and remembered that only a short time ago, he was having BLT's with just his brother at that table, his house dark and quiet. It was only the first night, he thought, and more adjustment was to come, but when Winry scooted her chair closer to his and leaned back into the angle created by his chest and his arm tossed over the back of the chair, Edward resolved that, at least, right then, he felt fulfilled. Like maybe Winry was right—it might have been the beer, but if this was not belonging, he didn't know what was.

x

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The feelings of comfort, unfortunately, were short lived in the face of six adults living in a three-bedroom house with a water heater and fridge designed for, perhaps, a family of four, and Edward was starting feel rather like the conductor of an orchestra where the instruments were all a half-step sharp or flat. They settled into a sort of routine in some ways. The Elrics and Elric-affiliated women showered at night while the Tringhams and Tringham-affiliated women bathed in the morning. The one up side: Winry suggested that she and Edward begin showering together to conserve hot water.

"I'll take one for the team," Edward sighed when Winry proposed it while they changed for bed.

She smiled and looked at him out of the side of her eye. "You wouldn't feel up to taking one for the team right now, would you?" And Edward knew that hygiene alone wouldn't put that glint in her eye.

Almost as soon as she put the idea forward, Edward began to feel quite up, indeed.

Eventually, the result at the end of this long, crowded equation was a house full of entropy. Edward and Winry both worked longer hours, clocked more overtime, and spent more than a few nights at Winry's apartment while Alphonse, who was now on summer holiday, took on more volunteer responsibilities at the Letoist church. Russell devoted himself to his projects. Fletcher devoted himself to Russell. And Sophia tided up the flower beds in Edward's front yard.

Aside from that, Her Highness Tringham-to-be took three-quarter-hour showers every morning; Fletcher was an early riser, which meant lots of scraping and scuffling at sunrise; and word of the alchemic basement brouhaha was bringing in the riffraff. More specifically, late in the morning of the second Saturday the Tringhams were in Central, Brigadier General Mustang arrived on Edward's stoop in his civvies, ready to tinker with red water samples and see what all the appeal of this Tringham character was.

On his second knock, Winry hurried from the kitchen where she and Sophia were mixing up the filing for a blueberry pie for their various boys.

"General," she said with a smile.

On the opposite side of the screen door, Mustang stood with his hands in his pockets, his coat draped over his arm, and his shirt sleeves rolled up. So casual, like he belonged there, and Winry was starting to expect that that was simply the General's default affect. He could belong anywhere.

"Good morning, Miss Rockbell," he said, with a smile on his modified, half-hidden face.

"Come in," she said, reaching forward and pushing open the screen door. She could feel the General subtly looking her over, noting her apron and fine dusting of flour. "Can I take your coat?" she asked as he stepped over the threshold.

"Yes, thanks," he answered and handed it over. "Am I too early for Edward?"

Winry took his coat and schooled her face not to react when his hand brushed over her bare forearm. He didn't respond either. "No, he's puttering around somewhere." As she hung his coat on a hook by the door, she added, "Do you know the Tringhams?" and gestured over her shoulder toward the parlor where Russell and Fletcher had been sleeping for the last two weeks.

Mustang peered into the parlor where Russell, Fletcher, and Sophia were folding up and stowing the linens from the night before. Russell looked up at the mention of his name. "By reputation only."

Russell passed his folded sheets to his brother, dusted off his hands, and came into the foyer.

"Brigadier General Roy Mustang, this is Russell Tringham," Winry said, waving from one to the other.

They shook hands, nice and civilized-like. Winry knew then that they both knew only stories of one another, and she couldn't help but chuckle quietly when they both seemed to be a little surprised to meet the man behind all those rumors. They took only a moment to exchange pleasantries before alchemy came up, and that was when Winry excused herself to the kitchen.

While she was painstakingly weaving strips of crust over her pie, she heard Edward dragging his bare, heavy, Saturday-morning feet down the stairs. They had a loud, chummy exchange of salutations and insults and wasted no time heading through the cellar door, which had a big, handwritten sign—made from a cut-up cereal box—reading "NO GIRLS ALLOWED." And Winry resolved not to take it personally that Edward couldn't say good morning to her.

Mustang, of course, was more delicate about the sexual division in the house than Edward could ever hope to be. After putting in almost two hours in the dank, musty basement, he emerged at the head of the pack, Ed and Russell griping for lunch. He first commented on how superb the kitchen smelled with the pie cooling on the windowsill, and he then helped Winry and Sophia slice tomatoes and cook bacon for seven people's worth of BLT's. While the radio by the fridge filled the air with the gravelly voice of a smoky-sounding alto, Mustang switched between humming and singing lowly along. Sophia sang a crystalline harmony, a misty soprano to his deep-sea baritone.

Edward found himself standing in his kitchen door, watching his superior and his girlfriend assembly-lining sandwiches, and he convinced himself not to be bothered when, in the process of setting up the table for lunch, Mustang and Winry had such a risible time staying out of each other's ways that, upon bumping together for the third time, Mustang took her hand, put a palm on her waist, and foxtrotted her around the kitchen to the radio, Winry's head tossed back and her warbling laughter spilling over them. He was happy to see them getting along, Edward told himself. He was glad to see Winry so comfortable.

After lunch, Mustang divided his time between determining the limestone content in red water samples and talking about cosmopolitan things with the girls—things like wine and politics and stuff.

x

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x

Before lunch on the following Sunday, Winry and Alphonse coordinated an outing to the Letoist church. They were slated to begin sanding down all the donated pews mounted in the main hall of the church, and it was a project, Alphonse explained, that took no skill and would get done faster with more people. So they loaded up into Edward's car with Alphonse driving, Winry in Edward's lap riding shotgun, and Russell, Fletcher, and Sophia—who seemed determined to wear her Sunday dress regardless of what activities were planned for that Sunday—rode in the back.

Upon arriving, they extricated themselves from the car and were welcomed to the church by the Reverend Umar Lawrence, wearing what might have been a pristine suit before the early summer heat got to it. He looked wearier than the last time Edward saw him, more heavily-lined and, perhaps, thinner. And he still needed a shave.

Repositioning a shining lock of hair that drooped across his forehead, Lawrence came up to the entrance of the church as Edward and the others entered. The sanctuary was coming along, Edward noted. The stained glass windows were installed, depicting various scenes from the Book of the Sun. The walls were completely whitewashed, and electric lights hung from the ceiling high overhead.

"What have I done to deserve this? Two Elrics? This must be a blessing!" Lawrence announced jovially. He spread his arms in a gesture of welcome. "Alphonse, so many able bodied men you've brought me today!"

Al grinned. "These are our friends visiting from Xenotime." He gestured toward Russell and Fletcher. Sophia was somewhere behind Fletcher, gripping his sleeve.

Lawrence raised his eyebrows. "Xenotime? What brings you so far from home?"

Edward felt his mind go blank of everything save the truth, but Russell did not miss a beat. "A mutual friend of ours is having a birthday, and we haven't seen Central in... what? Four or five years?" he asked of his brother.

"At least," Fletcher answered.

"We were due a visit. Russell Tringham," Russell said, offering his right hand, which Lawrence accepted. "This is my brother, Fletcher Tringham, and his fiancee, Miss Sophia Reynolds."

Lawrence hesitated and then flashed Russell a pearly, white smile. "Then are you the Mr. Tringham behind the essay in—when was it?—the January issue of _Alchemic Agriculture_?"

Russell blinked. "Actually, yeah, I am," he said as he stood up a little straighter.

At that point, Edward, Winry, and Alphonse made meaningful eye contact with each other and slunk off to join the other volunteers working on the pews. They picked up sheets of sandpaper, stapled them to small blocks of two-by-four, and found an unfinished section of pews away from the others. While Edward worked away at the curved back of the seats, Alphonse and Winry knelt on the opposite side and sanded the seat and front.

"Look at him," Edward muttered. "You'd think he was talking about the time he saved a baby from a runaway train."

Winry snorted. "Jealous at all, Ed?"

Edward got up on his knees and glared over the pew at her. "No!" he snapped. "You know what his article was about? It was about synchronizing agricultural alchemy with moon cycles and planetary movements and shit."

Winry curled her lip. "Really?"

"Yeah. I'm surprised he didn't endorse taking your shoes off and singing supportive hymns to the plants while he was at it," Edward said, just dripping with disdain. Winry laughed into her hand.

"That's not fair, brother," Alphonse said. "He put forward some interesting theories."

"_Phbbbt_," Ed scoffed, "Yeah, and maybe the sun really is a big old guy in a dress who tromps across the sky everyday."

"Brother!" Alphonse hissed. He looked around to make sure no one had heard Ed. "I know it's painful for you, but have you ever considered tact?"

"The truth hurts," Ed concluded, a self-satisfied look on his saw-dust filmed face.

Winry rocked up onto her knees and peered over the pews at where the Tringhams and Lawrence remained standing by the door. "Jeez, they're still talking," she said. "Sophia looks like she could use an out."

"I'm surprised the Duchess came with us at all."

"Brother!"

Eventually the Tringhams and Sophia joined the others sanding, although Sophia and Fletcher soon took a seat on the unsanded pews and chatted while everyone else worked. It was, after all, volunteer work.

As the day progressed and the work got more and more tedious, Edward and the others became rather punchy. When Winry and Russell's sanding race dissolved into a draw that could be resolved only by an arm wrestling match, Edward and Alphonse decided that they had clocked enough hours at the church for one day. Edward pulled Winry to her feet and backed her up, flailing, as Fletcher wrestled Russell away.

"You're pretty lucky," Winry said, jabbing a finger at Russell. "Your kid brother just saved you from some serious hurt!"

"That's quite a threat coming from a _girl_," Russell retorted as he disentangled himself from his kid brother. He straightened his collar and righted the shoulders of his shirt where they had bunched under his suspenders.

"Oh, really?" Winry barked with Edward's arm cinched around her ribs. She fought to get back, but Edward was not relenting. "Looks to me that you're awfully doughy and delicate from that pointy-headed job of yours."

"_Doughy and delicate?_"

Edward, Alphonse, and Fletcher then left as surreptitiously as they could, Winry and Russell in tow, while Sophia tried to make herself invisible. They gave their brief goodbyes to Lawrence and crept out, ignoring his questions about where they were staying, when they would be returning, and if they needed more buttering up like dinner at his house.

"Four hours of sanding is too much for anyone to bear," Alphonse said as he turned the key in the ignition once they were all stuffed back into the car. "Let alone you jerks."

When they arrived home, the Tom Collinses were passed around with dinner, and tensions began to ease. And that night, when Winry and Ed tested their compatibility in a way that Fletcher and Sophia could only imagine, she declared so loudly that she loved him that Edward could not help but repeat it back to her. His declaration, unlike Winry's, was not mid-coitus. It was quiet, close to her ear, with her arms and legs wrapped around him. He pushed her sweat-dampened bangs from her forehead and blew cool air across her skin. And it didn't bother him to think of Winry and Mustang dancing in his kitchen.

Later that night, at about 1:30 in the morning, Winry woke up to a loud noise downstairs, like a hand interceded in her dreams, grabbed her by the throat, and yanked her back into Edward's bed under the window. Her eyes shot open, and she was instantly wide awake, her heart thudding away at the start. The streetlamps outside of Edward's window cast an unnatural yellow glow on the foot of the bed. At first, she told herself, it was Fletcher shuffling toward the bathroom as he often did in the night. But the more she thought of it, the more it sounded like a door being opened, more like the tumblers in a lock being persuaded. She rolled to her right and jostled Edward.

"Wake up," she whispered.

Edward remained listless and unresponsive until Winry hissed, "I think there's someone downstairs, Ed." That woke him up. "I thought I heard the front door opening."

He sat up abruptly and clapped a hand on Winry's arm. "You sure?" he whispered. Winry only nodded.

Edward rolled out of the bed and pulled on his pajama pants from the floor. He then went to his closet where his shoulder holsters hung from a hook on the back of the door. He pulled both his handguns free and came back to the bed.

"Here," he said, pressing one of the pistols into Winry's hand. "I'm going to turn off the safety, and I want you to keep this pointed at the ceiling." Winry swallowed and nodded as she closed her fingers around the handle. "If you need to, I don't want you to point and shoot. I want you to point and kill. You got that?"

Winry nodded again, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.

"After I go, I want you to go to Sophia's room and stay there, okay?"

"Okay."

With that, Edward stood up and motioned Winry to follow him. She stood up, slipped on her underwear and Edward's robe, and took his gun in both of her hands. She did as he said and kept the muzzle pointed upwards as they moved toward the bedroom door. Winry could feel her hands shaking.

In a blur of motion, Edward threw open his bedroom door and rushed into the balcony over the foyer. Winry darted behind him and ran for Sophia's room.

Edward had only an instant to interpret what he saw below him in the parlor. He bolted halfway down his stairs and fired at the shadowy figure he saw standing over Russell, where he slept on a pallet on the floor. In the light from the streetlamps, Edward thought he saw a bottle in the figure's hand, hovering over Russell's open mouth.

One bullet tore through the intruder's shoulder, throwing him back into a spin that left him spilled on the floor. Edward jumped down the rest of the stairs and fired again, grazing the figure's thigh and lodging a bullet in the sheetrock in the foyer. Edward put himself in front of his open front door, braced and ready to take the full force of a retreating man, fueled by desperation. When the assailant, dressed from head to toe in black, collided with Edward in his scrabbling run for the door, Edward gripped the figure by the forearms and slung him hard against the wall.

The shadowy body hit the wall hard and slumped for only a moment. He popped back up, though, and brandished a knife. With his pistol, Edward was almost helpless in close combat, and the intruder slashed out in a wide arc. Edward felt the stinging bite of the assassin's blade across his right cheek. The blow had been aimed at Edward's throat, but he had brought up a forearm in time to deflect. And by the time he recovered from the strike, he heard his screen door clapping shut and hurried footfalls across the porch.

Edward pushed himself up and flew out into the street. From the sidewalk, he saw the black-clad figure flash through a pool of light from a streetlamp a few buildings down, and Edward emptied his magazine at the retreating figure's back. He thought another bullet hit its mark, but Edward could not be sure. By the time Ed had run down the street to where he saw that figure last, there was nothing but a small splattering of blood on the pavement.

When he returned to his house, everyone was awake. Alphonse and Russell stood over Fletcher, who was stunned but unharmed on the couch by the wall.

"Are you all right?" Edward asked as he barreled into the foyer. "Do you have a weird taste in your mouth?"

"I'm fine," Russell said as he stood and met Edward by the door. "What the hell was that?"

Edward opened his mouth to answer but was cut off by Fletcher. "Where's Sophia?" he asked, propped up on his elbows on the couch.

A bolt of fear shot through Edward, from the searing pain in his cheek all the way down his spine. He took off at a sprint up the stairs, Russell close behind. He reached the guestroom and tried the door. It was locked. With his automail foot raised high, Edward kicked through the door, sending the splintered remains of the door jam showering inward.

They found Winry on the floor, wedged into the space between the bed frame and the wall. She had one arm wrapped tightly around Sophia, who was hunkered down and whimpering into Winry's lap, and Edward's gun pointed right at the door.

Russell scooped up his future sister-in-law and laid her trembling on the bed while Edward snatched the gun out of Winry's limp hand. He flicked the safety on without thought and tossed the pistol into the hall as Winry flew into his arms. She hit him so hard that he collapsed to the floor, and he pulled her into his lap.

"You're okay," Edward reassured her as he ran a hand down her spine. She was shaking in his arms.

"Don't you _ever_ give me a gun again, Edward Elric," Winry murmured in his ear.

He squeeze her tight around her shoulders and knees. "I won't," he said, "I promise."

x

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The next morning was silent and surreal. Only Winry and Edward had obligations, and they moved through the finally sleeping house like they were underwater, making coffee and oatmeal sluggishly and as quietly as they could. Winry had nothing to say to Edward, her mind too sleep deprived and distracted to string words together, but when she did speak, they stood side-by-side in front of the percolator. They cradled their individual cups of coffee close when Winry turned bloodshot eyes on Edward and whispered, "What happened last night?" After being disarmed, Edward had guided Winry back to their bed, and she had, after many dark hours, fallen into a fitful sleep, curled tight against his side.

"Someone broke in," Edward said. Had he his full wits about him, he would have known better than to tell Winry the full truth. However, after only a few hours of sleep and a larger dose of adrenaline than he had ever had in his own home, he was still a bit unsteady. "At first, I thought they were here for me," he heard Winry make a quiet squeak in her throat, "But they would have known I wasn't sleeping on my own floor. I think they were here for Russell."

"Someone was trying to hurt Russell?" Winry asked, her voice nothing more than a few nutshells rattling in a closed palm.

"I think so," Edward said, watching the patterns the cream was making as it swirled across the surface of his coffee.

"Oh, my God," Winry murmured, putting a hand over her eyes.

Edward knew immediately that he had said too much. He curled a hand around the back of her neck and pulled her close. "We're all okay, though," he reassured her in a voice that he hoped came off as calm and certain. "No one got hurt except the bastard who broke in."

"You shot him?"

"I shot him."

Edward did not feel particularly like consoling anyone, but Winry's over-bright eyes in the creeping morning light begged for some comfort. And Edward could pretend like he had something more to give for her sake. He kissed her on the forehead. "No one got hurt," he repeated.

"You got hurt," Winry replied, ghosting her fingertips over the cut on his face.

Edward blinked. He had forgotten.

"What are we going to do?" Winry breathed.

Edward was quiet for a moment before answering, "I don't know." He heard Winry sigh and felt the breeze from her mouth across his throat.

"Talk to the General," she said. "He'll know what to do."

x

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Edward took the car that morning. He dropped Winry off outside her office a couple minutes late, and after she was done kissing him goodbye on the sidewalk, she was even later. It was grounding though, to feel the pavement beneath him, Winry's fingers curling into his arms through the fabric of his uniform coat, her desperate lips on his. He left with the quiet resolve to put his head down and plow through the day so he could hurry home to her.

Storm clouds rolled in from the east that day, casting the office in a shade grayer than it normally was. It was not dark enough to turn on their desk lamps or the overhead lights, and so the gray crept in with nothing to push it back. Perhaps had Edward not advertized how unreceptive to it he would be, his colleagues would have inquired about the fresh cut on his cheek. Despite his determination to get the General alone that morning and tell him what had happened, he never had the chance. They began the week with a stack, twelve deep, of cases that needed their investigation. More than that, Mustang had them divide up to tackle the cases individually, leaving Edward with nothing but his own head to help him sort through things. Not that he would tell Ross or Havoc about the break in—the less they knew, the safer they were—but they could have provided some very welcome distraction. Instead, Edward was collecting statements from victims of a potentially alchemy-related arson all morning. And as hard as he knew it was for the witnesses as they cried to him, begged him to bring the perpetrator to justice, he could not bring himself to give a damn.

By lunch, the day was dark and unseasonably chilly. Havoc took the lunch his wife had packed for him to the cafeteria, and Ross—who was just now beginning to return to her original comfort level after being forcibly dismissed by the General a few weeks prior—followed along, leaving Edward and Mustang at their desks, no break in sight.

Mustang did not take lunch breaks, Edward was noticing. While Edward flipped sightlessly through one of his cases, he stole sidelong glances at his superior. Mustang was leaned back in his rolling chair, his fingers pressed to his forehead, while he read this report or that form.

The man did not look like he wanted to be disturbed, but Edward had never let something like that stop him before. After enough time had passed for Havoc and Ross to be a good distance down the hall, Edward closed his folder and looked at Mustang.

"My house got broken into last night," he said. If there were a better way to introduce the subject, it had not occurred to Edward.

Mustang looked up, taken aback. "What?"

"I said my house got broken into last night."

The General sat up straight, his hands on his desk. "Is Winry all right? And Alphonse?"

"Everyone's fine," Edward said, nodding. "I unloaded a whole clip at the bastard, but he got away."

"Did he take anything?"

"Nothing," Edward said. He started to explain that this was no common thief, but the phone rang just then. Mustang put up a hand to pause Edward and answered.

"Abuse of Alchemy," he said, "Mustang speaking." He was quiet for a moment. "Miss Rockbell," he began. "Yes, he's right here."

When Mustang held out the receiver, Ed stood up. He felt his shoulders tense as series of nightmare scenarios flashed through his head. As he rose, though, Edward reminded himself that just because his home had been trespassed upon did not make every place dangerous. Just because Winry had been put at risk the night before did not mean she was at risk everywhere.

"Winry," he said once he'd taken the phone. He stood over the General's desk and stepped as far he could, hoping that Mustang could not overhear his conversation. "Are you okay?"

"Um," she began, "Yeah, I'm okay."

She didn't sound very convincing. "What's wrong?"

"I wanted to let you know that I'm going home early today."

Edward furrowed his brow. "Is everything all right?"

She was quiet for a moment. "Yeah, yeah. I'm still a little shaken up from last night and," she paused. Edward could hear her breath trembling into the phone. "I fainted this morning."

"_What?_" Edward barked into the phone.

Winry made no effort to placate him. "I threw up, too."

"Hold on. I'll come pick you up right now," Edward said, ready to hang up the phone and leave without a word.

"No, that's okay," Winry assured him, her voice thin and weary. "I called a cab already."

That was unexpected. And hurt a little. "Winry," he began.

"Edward," she said, her voice spilling over him, a lachrymose confession. "I've been meaning to tell you," she managed. "But after what happened last night, I couldn't keep it in anymore." He knew he probably wanted to be seated before she continued. But his desk was too far to reach in time before Winry said as stolidly as she could muster, "I think I'm pregnant."

"W—wh—what?" Edward sagged against Mustang's desk, ignoring his superior's meaningful look.

"I'm sorry," Winry managed. "I'm sorry to tell you over the phone."

"A—are you sure?"

"No," she admitted. "But... Edward... I'm two weeks late."

Edward thought he might vomit. He didn't stop himself from pressing into his eyes with his flesh hand. "Okay," he said as rationally as he could. He swallowed hard and tried his damnedest to sort his thoughts. "Okay," was the best he could do.

"I'm so sorry, Edward."

He drew in a long, bracing breath. "Go home and rest. We'll figure this out."

Winry hung up before Edward could say goodbye. He returned the phone to the hook and found his way to his chair. Edward put his elbows down heavily on his desk and slumped forward into his hands.

"That didn't sound like a very welcomed call," Mustang said after a long silence.

He shook his head. "It wasn't."

"Edward, is everything all right?" the General hazarded, sitting forward in his chair.

Ed swallowed hard. He tilted his head down, threaded his fingers through his bangs. "She thinks she's pregnant." Were it not for the series of blows Edward had been dealt in the last twelve hours, he never would have said it.

The quiet was long and weighty. Mustang laced his fingers together and leaned into his knuckles. "You know, Ed, when I told you to seek out some feminine attention, I didn't mean go forth and be fruitful."

Edward bolted to his feet. "_Fuck you, Roy,_" he cried as he slammed his palms down on his desk.

Mustang held up his hands. "I apologize. That was insensitive," he said, laughter thinly veiled in his voice. He watched his twenty-three-year-old subordinate, still just a kid, seething at him. He thought, too, of Winry, who was so much less of a child than Edward was. "Is it simply a possibility or is it serious?"

Edward furrowed his brow. "What?"

"I mean, what are the chances she's right?"

Edward sank back down to his chair. "I don't know."

Mustang couldn't help but chuckle, earning himself a very dark scowl. "What do you mean you don't know? You didn't take any..." Mustang hesitated, waiting for Edward to catch his meaning before he had to feed it to him, "_precautions_?"

Ed blinked at him. "Precautions?"

This was, apparently, significantly more serious than Mustang thought. "Wow," he breathed. "I suppose this is what happens when you grow up without a father."

That was an awfully low blow, and Edward knew that, while Mustang was clearly mocking him, he was also being critical. "And I guess you're what happens when you grow up in a whorehouse," Edward snapped.

If that stung Mustang, he didn't show it. Instead, he smiled a compassionate smile. "Go home, Ed," he said. "Install better locks on your doors."

Edward did not need a second prompt. He snatched up his briefcase and stormed toward the door. "And Fullmetal," Mustang called. Edward paused and looked over his shoulder. "If you need anything," he began.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Edward grumbled with a dismissive wave.


	12. The Boundary

**A/N:** After many a message regarding my long absence, I thought I should say something to answer questions, assuage some-seemingly-angry readers, and, I guess, vindicate myself? I was, four weeks ago, in a multi-car wreck where I was in the physical middle of the pile up. I was hit three times on the interstate. It _destroyed_ my car, and when I say destroyed, I mean I had to kick my door out in order to crawl out of the car. I was told by the firemen, the doctor, and the insurance claims adjuster(s) that I am lucky to be alive and even luckier to have my legs. That being said, I am perfectly fine. I do not use the word miraculously lightly, but I use it in this situation. Now if I could just find a reasonably priced, fuel-efficient car, it would be like it never happened. Anyway, long story short, here's the next chapter!

**XII. The Boundary**

The damp from the storm had come in through the windows during the day when Mustang had them open to battle back the summer's heat. Now, with the chill as decidedly present as a spoiled house cat, Mustang opened his flue and sparked a fire in his hearth. It had been months since he had used the thing, particularly with his newly updated furnace in the basement. But the charm of a fire in the hearth did as much to push back the cold as the flames did. And with his windows remaining just cracked, the soft percussion of rain on the street was a very pleasant soundtrack to that evening's newspaper.

Mustang pushed his fingers under his eyepatch and rubbed his skin, now almost permanently grooved where the rigid edge of the patch dug in. The angry, red lacerations across his cheekbone were now just pale craters and chasms, the results of getting shot in the face. The episodes of vertigo and dementia from having a bullet lodged in his brain had faded to only the occasional spell of disorientation as well. All things considered, over the six or so years since he had lost his eye, he was making a remarkable recovery. He recalled the notes that Hawkeye used to leave in his desk and coat pockets, in his wallet, things like to-do lists or walking directions from Central headquarters to his house. The office number, emergency contacts, her home phone. On a few humiliating occasions, Mustang recalled looking around him and realizing that he did not know what street he was on, how he got there, or how to get back. And it was all he could do to find a payphone.

But that had not happened in years. With time, the pervasive instability that once characterized his days had faded without his knowing it.

He wondered if it were, perhaps, time to downsize his eyepatch. Not to something too reminiscent of the Fuhrer, but something that wasn't so bulky it made smiling difficult. The recalcitrant tautness of his scar tissue was hinderance enough.

A loud, fast rapping on his front door roused Mustang from his reverie. He set his newspaper down on the coffee table, folded back on itself to keep his place.

He was not sure what to expect when he opened his door. It was decidedly late, and that fact alone typically put any visitor in one of two categories: a friend in trouble or a woman in trouble.

Turns out, it was both.

"What the hell are you doing?" Mustang asked when saw Winry on his stoop, hugging herself and shivering. She didn't bother to press herself forward toward the door and, instead, stood in the run off the from the short awning overhead. He threw open his screen door, seized her upper arm, and dragged her inside. "Are you out of your mind? Where's your coat?" His first thought, of course, was of the precariousness of the first term of a pregnancy.

Winry's teeth were clattering so hard she could barely get out, "I'm sorry, General. I was trying to get to Mrs. Hughes's house."

"You couldn't call a damn cab?" he asked as he left Winry dripping in his foyer and went to the linen closet in the hall. His housekeeper had left a stack of thick, white towels folded neatly on a shelf, and he seized one off the top.

He heard her voice, strained to mitigate the trembling. "I left in a hurry."

_Oh_. Mustang returned and unfolded the towel with a snap. He draped it over Winry's shoulders and rubbed her upper arms through the material. "Is everything all right?" he asked, although he had a strong inkling of what would send Winry stomping precipitously away from Edward's company at ten o'clock at night.

She dropped her eyes, her lips thin and tight. "I couldn't stay at that house tonight."

"I see," he said.

She looked rather like a stray cat right then. Dripping and too desperate to be spitting mad but too proud to show her desperation. She wore nothing more than a pair of brown slacks—now almost black from the rain—and what looked like a man's sleeveless undershirt. Mustang just barely allowed himself to notice that she was braless under the wet, clingy fabric, now only an afterthought of modesty. Her skin looked pale and thin; her hair was plastered to her face and neck and shoulders.

"I can call you a cab," he offered. But Winry was already stepping out of her shoes and seating herself in a wooden chair in the foyer. "Or you're welcome to stay here."

Winry looked up at him through the limp, dripping sheet of her bangs. And he knew her answer already. She must have walked quite a few blocks in the rain. It was ten o'clock at night. The kid was just looking for a place to sleep.

Mustang sighed. "Go sit in front of the fire," he directed. "I'll try to find you something dry to put on."

When she looked at him, she was frowning so hard he could tell she was trying to close her face to tears. "Thank you, General," she said. "I know it was stupid, but—"

Mustang held up a hand. "You don't have to vindicate yourself to me. You forget that I work with Edward."

Winry wiped her hair away from her eyes and smiled at him a sweet, sad smile.

"And I pity the man whose first name is General."

With that, Mustang turned and headed up his stairs, and Winry stood up and shuffled into his parlor. She felt a little self-conscious about the wet footprints she left on his floorboards or the damp buttprint she knew she'd leave on his carpet. But the fire felt so nice on her cold-stung face and hands. Sometimes, in the mornings, Edward would put his automail hand on her back or shoulder or hip, and the chilly metal would send creeping shivers through her skin; tromping through the rain with no coat had felt like that, only she could feel a cold automail hand around her lungs, her stomach, her fingers and toes. But the fire felt so nice. Winry scooted closer, moved the towel off her shoulders and up onto her head.

Her fingernails were purple, she noticed, her fingers pale and puckered.

She looked around the General's parlor—or rather, Roy's parlor. That just felt odd. But she tried it again in her head. Roy's parlor. Roy's house. Ten o'clock at night, sitting in front of Roy's fire. She had been to his house twice before, accompanying Edward and Alphonse to a New Years party and later to a celebration of the fourth anniversary of the creation of the Double-A.

It felt so different now. There was no pre-approved, neutral reason for her presence. She did not have Roy's permission to be there, only his forgiveness for showing up, his resignation at her company. She was an interloper now. The man was in his pajama pants and a bathrobe, for crying out loud. Winry rewrapped the towel around her.

What the hell had she been thinking? She only had an idea of how to get to Gracia's house from Edward's, and she'd been so mad when she had marched out that she hadn't noticed that she couldn't see stars through the storm clouds, that the air was heavy and ominous. In her mind, it was a fifteen, maybe twenty minute walk to Gracia's, and she could get there, spill herself through the front door, and tell her everything. _I'm pregnant and twenty-three and haven't gotten any kind of commitment from Edward except the simple fact that he isn't sleeping with anyone else and puts up with me sharing his bed. _And then Gracia would do that caring-parent thing that she and Maes had been so good at, and in the morning, Winry would leave with a set of resolutions to match her corresponding set of problems.

But instead, she was sitting in front of the General—er, Roy's hearth, looking half like she just walked in from a wet t-shirt contest and half like a cat someone had tried to drown.

She dropped her face into her hands and rubbed hard at her stinging eyes.

What the hell had she been thinking? What the hell was she going to do now?

x

x

x

Mustang had tried to think of any articles of clothing Riza had left at his house when she had moved out, but all he could recall were a few provocative numbers stowed in a box in the back of his closet. And while the thought of bringing Winry a negligee and telling her to make herself at home made him laugh out loud, he thought she would do better with a clean set of his flannel pajamas.

When he came down the stairs, Winry was a bundle of white towel and blonde hair, her slender arms projecting from the folds toward the grate.

"Here," he said, handed her a folded stack of pale blue flannel. "They'll be huge on you, but they're dry." Winry took his pajamas and looked at them with a quizzical expression as she unfolded the button down shirt and held it up. It must have looked like a tent to her. Mustang laughed at the uncertainty on her face. "Don't worry. I removed the Letoist Revival from them first."

Winry laughed and dropped her hands to her lap. "I'm sorry, Roy," she added his name a beat too late to be casual. "I'm just a little overwhelmed."

He chuckled. "There's a bathroom down the hall where you can change and get cleaned up."

She nodded and stood, clutching her towel around her shoulders as she went. Mustang could hear the sopping cuffs of her pants dragging over his floor as she shuffled down the hall toward the bathroom.

Once she was gone, Mustang went into the kitchen and put on a kettle of water. In the incandescent lamp over his stove, he stood, his arms crossed, and looked at his bare feet on the slate tiles. The phone was mounted on the wall by his fridge, and his first instinct was to pick it up. As a matter of probity, he should call Edward and let him know that his pregnant girlfriend was there. Before he could be accused of any indecencies, before he became implicated in Winry's imprudence, before he was put in a position where he had to take sides, he should call Edward and clear his name.

But as he turned toward his phone and took the receiver from the wall, he heard quiet, squeaking breaths from the hall bathroom, which shared a wall with the phone. At first he did not recognize it—it had been so long since there had been a crying woman in his bathroom, five months perhaps—but once he did, he set the phone back on the wall.

Mustang knew what an asshole Ed could be. He also had some degree of understanding regarding Edward's perspective right then and how easy it is to be an asshole when in his place. But the strength of his empathy for Edward was only as strong as his sympathy for the girl crying in his bathroom.

And, at any given moment, he owed Winry exponentially more than he could ever owe Edward.

He heard the bathroom door open and damp, bare feet padding back toward the fireplace. The kettle then began to whistle on the stove, and Mustang switched the pot to a cool burner.

"Can I offer you a hot toddy?" Mustang called down the hall.

Winry was quiet for a moment. "Um, no thanks," she said from the hearth.

Mustang could have smacked himself on the forehead. Instead, he poured both Winry's shot and his into his mug of tea, leaving hers booze-free. "Of course," he said, "That was _awfully_ insensitive of me."

When he came into the parlor, Winry was seated on the carpet before the hearth. Mustang's pajamas looked absurd on her. He might as well have given her a pillowcase with a hole cut in the top for her neck. She had the sleeves and cuffs rolled up like lumpy knots around her wrists and ankles. The shoulders slumped off her frame, and the top button of the shirt was dangerously low on her sternum. What Mustang noticed first, however, was the look on her face when he handed her a mug of tea and took a seat on his couch.

"What did you mean by that?" she asked.

Mustang furrowed his brow slightly, uncertain how to interpret her. He decided though, judging by the irresolute look in her eyes, that she didn't know he knew. And, more importantly, she did not want him to know. "I spoke with Edward this afternoon, shortly before he left the office." Mustang considered himself a rather generous man, but he was not so generous as to lie to her.

At first, she was silent. Then, "He told you?" she asked, the whites of her eyes standing out stark.

Mustang wanted to back away. "Yes, he told me."

He watched her set her mug of tea down on the coffee table behind her and cover her face with both her hands. The rolled cuffs of her sleeves slid down to her elbows. "I can't believe he told you," she said, her voice muffled by her palms.

Mustang sighed. "Neither can I." He drank a big gulp of his too hot tea down. He could feel the warm sizzle of liquor mingled with the scalding in his stomach. "I think his indiscretion was provoked by a lot of factors."

"I can't believe he told you," she repeated into her hands. "This is humiliating."

Mustang sat forward and set his mug down. He cleared his throat as though the gesture might provide a better introduction to his unearned sincerity. "I can't help how you feel about it, Winry, but I can tell you that I don't see it in that light."

She looked through her fingers at him. "I don't know how I feel about it just yet," she said. She dropped her hands and her eyes. "But I do know that it's very personal."

And that meant, of course, that she never would have told him. "It is that, yes," Mustang conceded.

She didn't seem like the same girl he had spun around Edward's kitchen only a couple days prior. Even her face seemed different, more drawn, her skin paler, or perhaps that was just the effect of the shifting orange light from the fireplace. She looked smaller, too, disappearing into the folds of her borrowed pajamas and hunkered down on the floor by the coffee table. She stared downward, somewhere beyond Mustang's feet. She had fit then, it seemed, in Edward's bright, sunlit kitchen, paddling through thick blueberry-scented air. And she fit now in Mustang's chilly, shadowy parlor.

"I'll make you a deal," Mustang said as he leaned back and set his feet up on the coffee table. "You may ask me something personal. Perhaps that will even the score."

He had asked it mostly to fill the silence, as present as the barometric pressure outside, and as soon as it came out, he braced himself for all manner of terrible things. He remembered only a moment too late that, oh, yes, this was Winry to whom he was speaking, and she would have a list of questions exclusive to her, questions that he would never have to answer if he had not volunteered to.

While there was a time he never thought such a thing was possible, Mustang was catching himself forgetting who she was to him, what he must be to her. And for a moment in Edward's kitchen and again just now, she was simply a pretty young woman, simply a friend in trouble.

She looked at him for a long time, waiting for him to rescind the offer. Certainly someone as slick as Roy would be able to think of a graceful way to back out, some glib circle to talk around her that would leave her dizzy enough to forget the offer. But he didn't. He just stared back.

In the last few days, as their interactions had begun to take big, loping strides down the spectrum from tense to comfortable, Winry had started to wonder something. It was something she never anticipated getting the opportunity to ask, but here it was. The opportunity. And she hoped that she was not about to damage their rapport. She was growing to like it.

"When did you first realize who I was?"

Who she was? The more important issue, Mustang thought, was where she came from. He knew were she had come from long before he had any understanding of who she was. In fact, for quite some time, he didn't really give damn who she was; the matter of his relationship to her origins had long overshadowed anything personal about the pretty blonde child he once knew. But he understood what she meant. Mustang drained the last of his hot toddy and set the empty mug on the table. He cleared his throat. While he knew _the big issue_ was going to make an appearance, he did not expect something so non-accusatory.

"The first night I saw you," he said.

Winry sat forward and folded her arms on the coffee table. "When you came to Risembool?" she asked. "When Ed and I were nine?"

"Yes," he answered. "I couldn't walk into Rockbell Automail without knowing what to expect." Even as he said it, it didn't feel entirely honest. What compelled him to honesty with her, he wasn't certain nor would he be for quite some time. "I would say it truly sunk in when you came to Central."

"After Ed got certified?" Winry asked, although she already knew what he was talking about. He meant when she was kidnapped.

Mustang nodded. "The MP's were escorting you out of that God-forsaken warehouse."

"Why then?"

This was more than one personal question, Mustang thought. But he owed her at least that. "You're the spitting image of your mother."

Her face lit up, and if that did not make it almost worth it, it certainly helped. "Really?"

"Oh, yes," Mustang said, nodding. "Your mother was distractingly beautiful. I imagine the most common condition she saw in that clinic was loneliness."

Had he truly said that? Had he had the audacity to speak of Sara Rockbell as though they had been acquaintances? Though, they had been, to an extent. She had known his name, his birthday, and blood type. She had treated him for a nasty case of giardia, the gruesome details of which he would never disclose to _anyone_, let alone Winry.

It would have been within reason for her to be offended by his candor. But she was not. Instead, Winry giggled into her hand. And when she looked up at Mustang, her warm smile remained. "Thank you, Roy," she said with ease this time. "And thanks for putting me up for the night. I owe you one."

"That's for damn sure. You're wearing my pajamas."

She laughed at that, a true, deep laugh. She then stood up and came around the coffee table. She sat to Mustang's right, turned to face him, her feet pulled up on the couch under her. Winry knew Roy was being more generous with her than simply giving her a room for the night. She felt him watching her, waiting to see what she'd do.

Perhaps it was the way her knee brushed this thigh. Perhaps it was how small and vulnerable she looked in his pajamas. Perhaps it was because this was the first time they were not just acquaintances having a conversation nor were they just a couple of victims wondering why they were hurting each other. They were both at once. Whatever it was, Winry didn't flinch as she observed him, his lined, guarded face. And Mustang, who was astute enough to know how much a long, frank stare could reveal, did not avert his gaze.

"I'm in your debt, Roy," she said plainly.

She heard him breathe. "There is no favor you could ask that would put you in my debt."

She studied his face, watched the firelight make his features deeper and sharper, all except for that patch, which looked like an abyss concealing half his face. She could have remained there, examining him, but a wide yawn burst out of her just then. Winry put the backs of her fingers to her mouth.

"I'll show you the guestroom," Mustang said.

Winry nodded and yawned again. She climbed the stairs, a few steps behind Mustang, and he took her down the hall. Her room was at one end of the hall, his on the opposite end. He showed her the bathroom, got her a glass of water, and asked if she needed anything.

"Just a good way to explain to Edward where I've been," she answered, looking at her feet.

Mustang laughed a dark laugh that petered out into a long, resigned sigh. "Let me know if you come up with anything." He turned toward his bedroom and gave her a wave. "Good night, Winry."

"Um, Roy," she chirped, snatching back his attention.

It would have been wonderful to retreat behind a closed door, to leave her in one single location where she would do predictable things like go to sleep. It would have been so nice to close the night with the provisional resolution they'd come to, but somehow, Mustang did not feel entirely resolved anyway. Nor did he feel prepared to spend more time in her presence. In that conflict, though, he paused and turned back to her.

"Yes?"

"Can I," she began, her fingers woven together and held down. "Can I ask you another personal question?"

Mustang knew better than to hope that he had exhausted Winry's curiosity surrounding her parents' deaths, and, honestly, he knew he should have predicted that once the door was open, the storm would not allow him to batten it. "You may," he surrendered and leaned back against the wall opposite the guestroom. He sunk his hands into the pockets on his bathrobe.

She studied her feet a moment longer but had the courage to look him in the eye when she asked, "Have you ever been married?"

"I have not."

"Then," she paused, counted to three, and spilled, "have you ever been in Edward's position?"

He did not see that coming. Mustang blinked, and it was far too late to back down now. If there was one hint he could get from Winry's face it was that she knew she had him cornered. That and she was frightened.

She already knew more about him than he would voluntarily allow. While plenty of people knew he had been the soldier to execute the Rockbells, only Winry could know it in the way she did, know it from her perspective. As his only surviving victim. "I have," he said, and once it was out, it felt like pulling the cork off a bottle.

"Did it work out in the end?"

That was a very good question, he thought. He wasn't married. He had no children. He was, it seemed, decidedly single now. Is that _working out_? "It did. They did, I should say."

Winry furrowed her brow in confusion.

"It's happened twice that I know of. Once, when I was younger than you are," he began. Mustang pulled his hands from his pockets, rested them on the wall behind him, and leaned back against them. He crossed his ankles, and Winry felt a flicker of envy for his repose. Whether it was a facade or not, she couldn't tell. "But that resolved itself."

Winry did not push him for details.

He pulled in a deep breath and pushed it out. "And again perhaps six months ago."

"What?" Winry would not have thought that these sorts of things happened to adults, let alone someone who seemed quite as savvy as Roy.

"You knew Lieutenant Hawkeye, didn't you?"

Her eyes widened before she could stop them. She nodded.

"She was determined, I suppose, to sort it out on her own. I know the doctor at the university who saw her if you decide to go that direction."

"That direction?"

This felt oddly reminiscent of his conversation with Edward earlier that day, and while he could have just as easily cracked a joke about Winry's growing up without some feminine guidance, he was, of course, the cause of Winry's naivete.

"To terminate your pregnancy."

The look on her face let Mustang know that that direction had not occurred to her, which meant it would either be the most straightforward solution or a pure anathema. Winry began to shake her head, her mouth slack, and Mustang held up a hand.

"It's something to consider, but if I may make one suggestion," he said, "talk to Edward before you do anything." He felt he could not impress this upon her enough.

Winry slumped against the doorframe, her head buzzing and manifestly awake. She sighed loudly and searched the floor for an answer. When she didn't find one there, she pulled her eyes up to Roy. "What do you think I should do?"

Mustang shook his head. "I don't get a vote."

"I'll give you mine, then."

Whether she was trying to be funny or not, Mustang did not know. He didn't restrain a laugh, however, at her open, unrepentant innocence, at her unwitting reductionism. "As much as I'd like to make this easier on the both of you, I would not wish for that responsibility." He laughed again. "And I imagine Edward would not appreciate my weighing in."

He watched her bring a hand up her face, rest the heel of her palm against her forehead.

"You're not deciding anything tonight," he told her.

"I certainly won't be sleeping tonight, either." She pushed her hand back into her damp hair. "I was sort of hoping you would pressure me to do one thing or the other."

_Like a parent?_ Mustang thought. "Perhaps if I were in a position to know what is right, I would," he offered. "Unfortunately for both of us, I rarely am."

"What am I going to say to Edward?"

Mustang stood up straight then, adjusted his bathrobe. "I think starting by telling him that you're unequivocally, inexorably in love with him is a good technique."

Winry hummed a moment and rubbed her chin. "I should write down those big words. I bet they'll help."

Mustang chuckled. "Alchemists are suckers for big words."

She sucked her teeth and sighed. "It's a start, at least." Winry pushed herself off the door frame and repositioned Roy's pajamas across her shoulders. "Good night, Roy." Reaching out to her right, Winry set her hand on the edge of the door and pulled it toward her.

"Good night, Winry."

x

x

x

The awkwardness forecast that morning, Mustang figured, was probably about seventy percent. About as great as the prediction for rain. He bathed and dressed that morning, wondering what he would find when he went downstairs. He thought he heard her leave the guestroom earlier, meaning she was loose in his house. She could sneak up on him at any moment.

He was, however, wrong. Mustang found Winry in his kitchen, a fresh mug of coffee waiting for him. She looked even more absurd in his pajamas with the morning light seeping through the clouds and into the windows. Her sleeves were rolled up higher now, making her arms look even skinnier, and she appeared to be disassembling his coffee pot.

"Oh, Roy," she said brightly when he came in. "Do you have a tiny phillips head screwdriver around? I was able to get two of these screws out with a spoon, but this last one is sticking."

Mustang picked up the coffee she had set aside. He gave it an unassuming sip and had to keep a grimace off his face. "Will I be receiving an invoice later if I tell you?"

Winry smiled. "That depends on how many things I find working poorly in your kitchen."

"I see," he said, nodding sagely and rubbed his chin. "You wouldn't happen to know where I could pick up a second mortgage at this time of morning, would you?"

She waved at him dismissively. "Don't be silly. I know a charity case when I see one."

He set down his coffee and went for the eggs in the refrigerator. "That's funny coming from the woman who showed up on my stoop last night, looking for a place to stay," he teased. He didn't look at her, but he knew Winry was scowling. "I don't imagine I can write you off on my taxes," he mused.

She seethed a moment. "You know what? Fix your own damn coffee pot," she snapped, slamming down a rather mangled spoon on the countertop.

Mustang picked up his spoon and gave it a dismayed look. "If it will save the rest of my silverware, there's a screwdriver in the drawer next to the sink."

"Alchemize it or something! And while you're at it, give me back the coffee I made for you!"

"Coffee?" Mustang asked as he brought a skillet down from a hanging rack over the sink. "Oh, you mean the cup of engine oil you gave me? And here I was starting to feel initiated into the mechanic's inner circle. Although, I always pictured your kind taking libations from a ceremonial Leaky Head Gasket."

Winry open her mouth to bark something at him when the phone rang. Mustang, who was rather enjoying some morning sparing, held up his hand. He went to the phone and answered.

Before he could say anything, the voice on the other end took off.

"Mustang!" Edward's voice burst through the receiver, "Have you seen or talked to Winry since last night? Did she call you or come by or anything? She stormed out of the house last night like an idiot, and I haven't heard from her. I called Gracia, and she hasn't seen her. I'm getting ready to file a report or something because that genius hasn't come back yet or called or fucking anything!"

Mustang smiled. "She's here."

"_She's what?_" Edward yelped. "What the hell is she doing there? Did she show up last night? If you put one grubby finger on her, I _swear_ by that little black book you call a set of morals that you're gonna get a big, pneumatic fist in your face. What the hell is she doing there?"

Mustang gave Edward a moment to catch his breath before he answered, "Right now, I think she's dismantling my percolator." He looked over his shoulder and saw Winry, screwdriver in hand, installing what looked to be his egg-timer on the front of the pot. She was looking at him now, though, with the anger washed out of her face. She appeared a little frightened.

"Well, put her on the phone!" Edward commanded.

Winry's eyes went wide when Mustang held the receiver out toward her. She put up her hands and mouthed _No!_

"She's a little preoccupied, it seems," Mustang said when he brought the phone back to his ear.

"Then tell her I—"

"I'm not going to be your mediator, Fullmetal."

"I was going to say, tell her that she scared the hell out of me."

The tone in Ed's voice, the sudden diffusion of wrath into concern, like ink into water, made Mustang smirk. "I'll do that." He hung up. When he turned back to Winry, she was slowly twisting a screw back into the base of the coffee pot.

"I'll talk to him when I'm ready," she said without looking up. "Face to face. Not over your phone."

"Fair enough," Mustang replied and went about making his breakfast.

She tinkered with the coffee pot a few minutes longer, and when she was done, Winry pushed it back and out of the way on the countertop. "I should get dressed," she said. "And I put a timer on your percolator. Now you can set it the night before so there's coffee waiting when you wake up."

When he smiled at her, Winry took a moment to interpret it. It wasn't one of those big thankful smiles, not that she could imagine Roy making one of those _ever_. There was, perhaps, a touch of gratitude to it but in a different sort of way. Perhaps he was grateful that she had resolved to herself when she got up that morning to put the night before into a file in her mind, one called _Points in Roy's Favor_, one that she could up open up later and peruse when she was alone. Perhaps he was grateful that she willed herself happy right before he came into the kitchen—and she would not doubt that he could sense that she had. Or perhaps he was grateful that she had swallowed all those other emotions she had surrounding him and greeted him with some appreciation of her own still fresh on her tongue.

After breakfast—ultimately, Mustang made scrambled eggs for the both of them—he asked if she needed a ride home.

"I live in the opposite direction," she said, waving at him dismissively. "I'll take your advice and call a cab." As soon as she said it, though, Winry remembered that in her theatrical display of tromping out of Edward's house the night before, she had not had the foresight to grab her purse. Without money and with no desire to take a detour to Ed's to get some, Winry looked down at herself in her loaned pajamas, her borrowed cup of coffee on the table in front of her, and her feet on someone else's kitchen floor.

Mustang watched this realization dawn upon her. "I can loan you cab fare, Winry," he assured her.

_Oh, God, really?_ "Oh, no, I can't," she said, putting up her palms. "Showing up here, staying for the night, eating your food. I couldn't take your money."

"If you insist," he said with a shrug. "You'll never make it as call girl that way, though."

It got awfully quiet after that.

Winry blinked at him.

Oh, if Mustang ever wished he could reel back the tape, drive over it with his car, and incinerate it, this was the time for it to work. While things between them had certainly progressed, they were nowhere near the kind of chumminess that would allow a crass comment like that to fly. It sounded like something he'd say to Havoc—perhaps not exactly, but the horrible little heart of it was in the right place.

He expected to see wide eyes and a firm mouth, the openly stunned face of a woman mortified. He braced himself to hear the feet of her chair screeching across the tiles as she stood and stormed away. He tightened his jaw in anticipation of a full-palm slap across his face. Instead, when Mustang looked at her, she was still there. She glared at him for only a moment before her face split into a big, contrived smile. "Maybe," she began hopefully, "if I keep practicing, you can get me an interview," she then added darkly, "_at the_ _Honeypot_."

Touche. For so many reasons, he was not prepared for that. Mustang rubbed his eye with a crooked index finger. "Damn." He made a note to twist Edward's tiny blonde head off his skinny little shoulders.

Winry snickered smugly as she stood and took their empty plates and silverware. As she set them in the sink, she asked good-naturedly, "Out of curiosity, how does an asshole like you sleep at night?"

"A very powerful prescription narcotic," he answered, still reeling a little bit from Winry's well-placed and unexpected barb.

"Oh, I know your type, Roy," Winry continued as she rinsed and scrubbed down their plates. "You've got this cold, hard exterior, but underneath, you're just a big softie." She set the dishes in the drying rack with a conclusive clink. "And underneath that, you're a big, old asshole."

Mustang began to chuckle. He stood up and put up his hands in surrender. "You've got me pegged," he said as he came up to the sink and leaned against the counter. "I apologize, Winry. That was a hugely inappropriate thing to say."

Winry waved him off. "Oh, please. I'm a mechanic for crying out loud. I've heard things that would make your mother blush."

He shook his head, knowing when he was defeated. Perhaps, he thought, next time, he would be better prepared for her. Mustang prided himself, of course, in being quick on his feet, but he never would have anticipated how well she could dish 'em out. Or take them for that matter.

Mustang reached into his back pocket and produced his wallet. "How much do you need for cab fare?"

Winry shrugged. "I don't know. I've never taken a cab this far."

He produced a few bills and set them on the counter. "I'll collect next time I see you."

Just then, Mustang noticed the clock over his stove. He was, perhaps, ten minutes behind his usual morning schedule, which was already leisurely enough. It had not, however, accommodated a woman's company in quite some time. "Damn," he muttered. "You've made me late."

"_I_ made you late?" Winry barked as she set her fists against her hips. She would have harped at him more, but Mustang was already out of the kitchen. As she listened to his feet thudding over the stairs, Winry poked through his cabinets until she found a phone book.

Once Mustang was collecting and donning his uniform coat by the front door, Winry stood at the stairs and leaned forward on the newel cap. She watched him put on his coat, adjust the cuffs, straighten the lapels, and she struggled not to think of the Roy she gave hell to that morning disappearing under the uniform.

"My cab should be here any minute," Winry said, feeling her chin moving against the backs of her hands where they were folded on the railing.

"Good," he said. "I don't imagine you can get into too much trouble while I'm gone."

"Oh, you would be amazed how quickly I can make long distance phone calls."

Mustang snorted. "Lock the door when you leave."

"Okay."

x

x

x

When Mustang came home that evening, after an infuriatingly long day filled with dinky little cases that skittered in and across his desk like mice, he was more than a little grateful to have his home to himself. Though it felt awfully big to him. Upon first moving into the place, all the empty space he could not occupy had struck him. That began to fade after the first few weeks—particularly as Hawkeye became a regular installment in it—but the feeling was back now.

His housekeeper would not be by until the next day, and Mustang took it upon himself to glance into his guestroom to see the damage.

Winry, as he should have expected, had been a very responsible houseguest. The sheets and pillowcases were folded up on the bed, ready to be laundered, and next to them was a sheet of paper. He came in and lifted it up to his eye.

_Roy,_

_I've got your pajamas. If you ever want to see them alive again, you'll meet me at a neutral location—my apartment—and let me make you dinner. Or else._

_W_

He resolved to change out of his uniform and give her a call.

x

x

x

Winry heard the buzzer at the door below as she was stirring a big, black pot of leek and lentil stew on her stove. The carrots were about ten minutes away from being the perfect texture, and Winry was starting to get anxious. Why she was getting anxious, she could not determine. Why should she be getting anxious? No reason! No reason at all.

Perhaps it was simply the fact that Brigadier General Roy Mustang was coming over to her house, and there were so, so many sources of apprehension when it was reduced to that: he was, lest she forget it, the man who executed her parents—she thought of their picture on her mantel, and part of her knew they would be proud of her for being big enough for that magnitude of forgiveness. But nothing, she had learned, was ever that simple. Also, Roy was her boyfriend's boss; that was just questionable enough for Winry to screw up her mouth when she thought of it. And, of course, he was a man coming into her apartment, and judging from some of the older stories that still occasionally floated around the office, Winry knew what sort of man he was. Or at least, what sort of man he had been.

Still, with those stories in mind, Winry imagined it could be easy to approach the situation she had been in the night before—soaked to the bone, on his doorstep, all manner of things that Winry thought only occurred in the novels they sell at the back of the drug store—with an entirely inaccurate set of expectations. She looked at Roy's pajamas, freshly washed and dried, folded up on the arm of her couch. No, _The Time I Crashed at Brigadier General Mustang's House for the Night, and He Was a Complete Gentleman About It_ was not a story she heard on the lips of young secretaries.

And knowing that just made her feel a little bit odd. She was grateful, certainly, that she could honestly claim to be in a small minority of women who interacted with Roy Mustang as human beings. But it did make her wonder: if he hadn't shot her parents, would they still be friends?

The buzzer sounded again, and she turned the heat low under the stew. She took a last look around her apartment—no underwear on the floor, no dishes laying around, no towels draped over chairs. With that, Winry opened her front door and left it ajar as she jogged down the stairs, past the break room, and through the waiting room. The big pane of glass in the door revealed Roy in his overcoat, holding a brown paper grocery bag in one arm. Sullivan and Rockbell's logo was etched into the window and superimposed over him at about chest-level. It was vacillating between drizzle and rain outside, and Winry watched Roy run a hand through his hair, slicking it back off his pale forehead.

Winry unlatched the three locks on the door and opened it wide.

"Hi there," she said, gesturing him in.

"Winry," he greeted with a nod. He stepped in through the door and set his grocery bag down on a semi-circular table against the wall. As he removed his overcoat, he looked around. "I don't think I've ever been to your office under ordinary circumstances," he said amusedly.

She thought for a moment. "It's true," she answered, "You're either dropping off or picking up."

Mustang had the wherewithal to refrain from mentioning adding something about dinner dates to his list of Sullivan and Rockbell Prosthetic Outfitters activities. Winry offered to take his coat, and he divested of it readily. Winry felt a twinkle of relief that he was not in uniform, although, she had noted when he called, he must have left work, found her note, and decided to come directly over. He wore plain slacks, suspenders, and a white, button-down shirt, the sleeves of which he immediately began rolling up. He gathered up his grocery bag, and Winry led him through the building toward the narrow stairway leading up to her apartment.

"Is it ever challenging living above your own office?" Mustang asked as Winry approached her front door.

"Sometimes when I want to sleep in," she answered. "But, really, it's more convenient than anything else. I can roll out of bed twenty minutes before my first appointment."

Winry entered her apartment and went immediately to the stove to give their dinner a stir. Mustang entered more slowly, reservedly. But there he was, Winry noted when she looked over her shoulder and told him to put his bag down on the kitchen table. He, of course, looked like he belonged. His posture was eased, and he looked around at her place with an appraising expression.

"I wish I had had an apartment this nice when I was twenty-three," he said, his hands resting on the sides of his brown paper bag.

Winry snorted. "Ed's house must make you seethe, then."

"Yes, well, he got the salary when he was _twelve_ that I didn't get until my twenties. Little bastard."

Winry turned, rested her hands on the oven handle, and leaned back against the stove. "So what's in the bag?" she asked.

"I assumed I would have to ransom my pajamas," he explained as he reached into the bag. "My intention was to pick up a bottle of wine, but it occurred to me that you wouldn't appreciate that." Winry smiled. "Instead, you get early pregnancy essentials."

That was one of the sweetest things Winry had ever seen.

Mustang produced a purple cabbage, a wicker quart of strawberries, a jar of pickles, and a small glass bottle with a white powder inside. Winry approached her kitchen table to inspect his offerings. She held up the cabbage. "For iron," Mustang said. Winry traded the cabbage for a strawberry, which she sank her teeth into with relish. "Vitamin C," the General added. When Winry gestured to the pickles skeptically, Mustang said, "You will crave the _strangest_ things." She lifted the glass bottle to her eyes and began to read the label. "It's a tonic for nausea, which I'm sure you're familiarizing yourself with."

Winry gave him a weary, wide-eyed look that said, _Am I ever._ After setting down the bottle, Winry put her hands on her hips and evaluated the loot. She narrowed her eyes and nodded. "I think this is close to a fair trade for your PJ's."

"Oh?"

"Mmm-hmm," Winry said. "First you've got to eat my cooking and convince me you like it."

"If your cooking is anything like your coffee..."

Winry scowled and pointed a finger at him. "The preggers gift basket was a good start, but you're fading fast, buddy."

Mustang laughed.

x

x

x

They talked like normal people over dinner. Winry paused a few times, took a figurative step back, and marveled at it. She could picture her emotional doppelganger standing behind them, her hands planted on her hips, her head cocked to the side, and her mouth hanging open in a long _Huh?_ But it wasn't even something Winry could think long about because she kept forgetting that it was odd, kept forgetting to notice it. And then she would blink and think, _Holy cow, it just happened again._

It helped that Mustang was funny. Really freaking funny. Winry caught herself once or twice, a hand over her solar plexus, her eyes squeezed shut, her mouth open and guffawing. It had been a very long time since her gut had hurt like that. After the doozy the last seventy-two hours had been, Winry thought she had more than enough pressure built up in her to keep her bursting like that all night.

He told her about getting his doctorate. "There's nothing like a panel of wealthy geniuses twice your age who are actively trying to undermine you and your research to remind you that you are, in fact, their bitch." He talked some about the fringe benefits of being in the military. "I was typically guaranteed at least a phone number when I'd mention something about being the youngest state alchemist in history. It's not nearly so flattering now to explain that I _used_ to be the youngest until I was showed up by a twelve-year-old." He even touched on having a Madam for a mom. "Yes, well, birthdays are always a gamble for me."

He wasn't always funny, though.

"What do you think it is about alchemy that makes alchemists so crazy?" Winry asked before slurping a slice of leek off her spoon.

"Certified or not?" Mustang said.

"Doesn't matter. All of them. What's the deal with them?"

Mustang began to laugh so hard he had to set down his spoon and cover his eye.

"What?" Winry snapped. She could tell when she was being laughed at, and with someone like Roy, that was most of the time.

He gave himself time to finish and then breathe a little before he looked at her and asked, "What _ is _the deal with them?"

"No! I'm serious. I've always wondered, and I don't think Edward can be objective enough to answer."

"I'm flattered you think I can," Mustang began and then thoughtfully cast his gaze off to the side. He sighed. "I think alchemy is for men who need more control than they can have naturally. Perhaps it is not alchemy that makes alchemists crazy but the reverse."

Winry paused a pensive moment. "I hadn't thought of it that way."

"Alchemy's first principle is equivalent exchange, correct?"

"You get what you give. That's about the extent of my grasp of alchemy," Winry admitted.

"Well, you can stop there because equivalent exchange is fallacious. It's not meant to be a binding law but a jumping-off point, and too many alchemists take it to heart."

Winry furrowed her brow. "Equivalent exchange makes sense to me."

Mustang considered for a moment an example to use. He then sat up straight in his chair and rested his elbows on the table. "Take, for instance," he began, "My left eye."

She hesitated before saying, "Okay."

"Do you know how I lost it?"

Winry nodded. "Al and I went to your decoration ceremony." The ceremony had drawn a bigger crowd than the Central Symphony Orchestra. Alphonse and Winry had received invitations that set them in reserved seating on a platform right next to the stage. Mustang, who, at the time, was still leaning heavily on a cane, had awarded a shining medallion on a purple ribbon, which he did not look elated to receive.

"Does that strike you as equivalent?" Mustang asked in a tone that let Winry know that it certainly did not strike him as such.

In the past, it had. But now when she thought of it with Roy sitting at her table and staring at her with his one remaining eye and that rigid black patch secreting the rest, she realized how absurd that notion had been. "No, it doesn't."

"Perhaps, for what I gave, I received the courtesy of not being tried for treason."

Then something occurred to Winry, and she blurted, "But, wait." Mustang waited, and Winry realized that she was about to step into something that was not her business, an abandoned battlefield still littered with landmines. "Maybe you personally didn't get anything, but everyone else did. You deposed the Fuhrer. You started the process that would reinstate the Senate and representation of the people, and you ended the war. You know that, right? You didn't exchange anything. You sacrificed it." Winry swallowed hard. She could get away with that sort of speech with Edward, but she wasn't sure if Mustang would be as generous.

"Perhaps," Mustang said as he kept his gaze leveled on Winry. She couldn't tell if he was offended or not. "But it's a bitter comfort."

Winry chewed her lip a moment. "I don't suppose anyone ever thanked you, did they?"

"Other than the ceremony that shut down the parade grounds?" Mustang did not make it sound like that was much.

"No, I mean, did anyone ever say it to you?"

His stare was starting to unnerve her, and Winry knew that either she was affecting him or she was digging herself in deeper and deeper.

Mustang thought for a long moment. While much of his recovery was an opiated blur, he imagined he might remember it if someone had. He certainly would have remembered it if Riza had. "Not to my knowledge. I'm certain it was implied, however."

"Well, thinking it is nice and all, but unless you've learned to read minds with alchemy, thinking it isn't the same."

Mustang did not particularly want to consider it. He did not want to consider that perhaps, in all those long weeks of arduous convalescence, no one had given him that simple yet profound courtesy. And if so, why the hell had that never bothered him? Was it possible that he simply did not expect anyone to? Mustang suddenly felt rather like he might vomit up all the soup Winry had just fed him.

Winry knew when he stood up from her table without saying anything that she had pushed him too hard. She couldn't get away with it. Not yet, and after that evening, perhaps not ever. As he sank down onto her couch, Winry could have slapped her hand hard against her forehead. She wondered if perhaps this was how he felt when he compared her to a call-girl earlier that day. Like sometimes they could fool each other into thinking they could associate like friends. And the weight of their history, when lifted, made them feel closer than they were.

"I'm sorry, Roy," she hazarded as she followed him to the couch and sat down with some distance between them.

She wanted to tell him she was an idiot. She wanted to explain how confused he made her. She wanted to lay it out right there and tell him that she was pretty much invested in trying to be his friend now and that she wondered if he was the same and that she would feel so much better if this was as difficult for him as it was for her.

He didn't accept her apology. And, at that point, Winry realized that he had probably making up his mind as to whether her friendship was worth putting up with her.

"I'm pushy and nosy and about as tactful as a three-year-old," Winry went on. "And Edward lets me get away with being overbearing too much, I guess. I've gotten too used to it."

He still said nothing but continued to look at her, his face blank. When it started to seem that he wasn't even trying, Winry got a little frustrated. "You really confuse me, you know, because sometimes it seems like we're friends enough for me to... to," Winry paused to brace herself, "I just don't know where the boundary lies."

"You're being overbearing," Mustang intoned. When she looked at him, she could see the mockery deep in his well of an eye.

"I know that! But sometimes that's the only way you can get stuff done when you're dealing with alchemists."

That made Mustang smile.

"And now you're laughing at me!" Winry threw her hands up in the air. "You know, when you said I had you pegged this morning, I thought you were joking." Winry meant it, perhaps, sixty percent good-naturedly. Mustang took it that way, though. Or, at least, he chose to.

Scowling, Winry grumbled, "Thanks for sacrificing your eye for the greater good, asshole."

"You're welcome," Mustang replied, silent laughter still lacing his words.

And then, right then, when the veil between them seemed thinnest, Winry felt emboldened. And she thought, if there ever were a time when she could get away with telling him what she wanted to tell him, it was now. She'd been carrying something around for him for weeks now, and before Winry could really think about it, it was spilling out of her mouth: "I've got something I've been meaning to say to you ever since you helped me get Edward home from my office." Mustang watched her and waited. And there was no backing out. "I've realized that the," Winry paused and willed the words out, "the order to execute my parents came from a commanding officer. Someone above you. The order could have been passed down to anyone. Why it," she had wanted so badly to get through her piece without getting emotional, but Winry could feel the restriction in her throat, the stinging in her eyes. She breathed deep. "Why it was given to you, I don't know."

"It was a test," Mustang explained. "And I passed."

"It was _cruel_," Winry snapped, her voice growing wet and thin. "It was cruel and... and senseless. And it _shouldn't_ have come to you." Winry could feel the eyes of that photograph on her mantel, and she hoped to God that this was what they wanted. "And," she hesitated to breathe, "and I'm sorry that it came to you. I'm so sorry that you had to be the one to do it. I've tried to imagine—"

She felt choked, like she was drowning.

"I've tried to imagine what it was like, and I couldn't. It was too overwhelming to... to think of how _hard_ it must have been."

Mustang just stared at her.

Winry put a hand on her sternum as though to press her heart back into her body. "And I'm so sorry," she managed, "that grief is easier to bear than guilt."

Before Winry could think to react, Mustang pulled her into a fierce embrace. He cinched his arms tight around her shoulders, and Winry could only rest her hands on his ribs, feeling the crisp fabric of his shirt under her fingers. She wept freely now, for both of them.

When he released her, Mustang held her at arm's distance and lowered his face so that he was looking her hard in the eyes. Winry could see his beetle-black eye searching her face, boring in deep.

"Don't ever apologize to me again," he demanded and gave her a firm shake. "I don't deserve your empathy."

Winry shook her head. She put her hands on his cheeks, one coarse with a day's worth of stubble, the other hidden behind his patch. "_Of course_ you deserve my empathy."

The impulse struck them both simultaneously. When they would look back, neither could completely take responsibility for it, but both were to blame, along with the smiling eyes of Winry's parents, watching from the mantel, long dead but ever influential. They met half-way, Winry clinging to Roy's face as he kissed her desperately. And she reciprocated. He buried his hands in her hair and held her like a man holds a precipice.

The only sources of awareness Winry felt, as Mustang seized her waist and dragged her into his lap, were their points of intersection. Winry was viscerally aware of the feeling of his mouth on hers, his hands under her skirt, his erection pressing against her inner-thigh. Soon, when he was trailing kisses down her throat and Winry felt her head rock back on her neck like the joint was fatigued, she closed her eyes, listened to her breath, and tried to distinguish the boundary between them. But, once more, she could not. She felt she was blurring into him, through her fingers in his shirtfront, her knees against his hips. Whose hands were on her face, her shoulders, her sides? Whose skin was on whose? She felt dizzy, the blood in her head thin and fast. She felt her stomach high in her body, her heart in her throat like someone had turned off the gravity in her, and if not for Mustang's hands gripping her hips, she might float away like a balloon aching for the sky. She felt him slip his hands under her shirt, his palms splayed over her ribs. He gripped her hard now, pulled her severely to his chest.

Winry heard him breathing hard, felt his exhalations on her cheek. His hair between her fingers, thin and soft—not thick like Ed's. His hand on her chest, palming her left breast fervently—Edward was always so careful with his right hand. His eyepatch under her fingers where his skin should be.

Edward had never thrilled her like that, had never strummed her like an over-tight instrument. Each touch was another pluck, and she was ready to sing under Mustang's virtuoso hands.

But Edward—he materialized behind her eyelids where, only a moment before, darkness had enveloped her—Edward. Edward. _Edward?_

Winry put her hands on Mustang's shoulders and pushed back harshly. She held her head back, her chin titled up, and looked at Mustang with petrified eyes, her mouth frozen and slack and still thrumming with circulation.

"What are we doing?" Winry breathed.

Mustang blinked and reality rushed in like a tide. He became aware of her under his hands, her weight against him.

She flipped off his lap in an instant and sat with her feet flat on the floor, her hands bunched between her knees, and stared at her coffee table. Too many thoughts fired simultaneously for Winry to snatch on to one. She had kissed Edward's boss, the executioner of her parents, Brigadier General Roy Mustang. She had let another man touch her. She had never felt like that before. She had betrayed Edward, even cheated on him. Was that cheating, a kiss? Granted it was a very premonitory kiss. Roy certainly seemed to know what his intentions were.

Winry looked at him. What were his intentions?

The girl looked terrified, and while Mustang had done worse than to take advantage of a young, pregnant girlfriend of a subordinate, at the moment, he couldn't think of when. He swallowed, schooled his expression, his breathing. "I apologize," he said, watching her watch him. "A momentary lapse in judgment."

She didn't look convinced.

Mustang leaned to his right and put his elbow against the armrest of the couch. He pressed his mouth to the crook between his thumb and forefinger briefly before turning back to Winry. "I haven't many phenomena in my life," he said. "But I consider your friendship one of them."

She was waiting for him to fix it, looking to him to explain to her what had just happened, and Mustang was hard-pressed to figure it out himself.

"If I've jeopardized that—"

"No, no," Winry interrupted, shaking her head and putting up her hands. The urge to lay a hand on his knee, to roll back into his embrace was powerful, like a sort of gravity pulled her closer. She willed herself to look away, keep her distance. "That was," she began. It was what? The most galvanized by a man she had ever felt, as though he had touched her not with his hands but with live wires? The first time someone had made her head spin? A mistake? Yes, that's it. A mistake. "I shouldn't have done that."

Mustang saw her stare hard at her knees, saw the color washed out of her face. And he began to laugh at her austerity. She flicked her eyes up to him. "You look like you're requesting a stay of execution."

Winry glared. Mustang climbed to his feet, still chuckling.

"I don't think it's funny," she snapped.

"I can tell."

Winry punched at the cushions of her couch and stood as well. She felt like she had been sitting there, her heart in her lap, trying to interpret the inscription around the outside. And for a moment there, he had seemed equally unsettled. But that was gone now. Like smoke through a cracked window. And she wondered how he could be so okay.

Winry watched him head for the door, and she was not certain what to say. She wanted to be grateful to see him go, to put him in a room away from her. But was that the resolution? Or was it just his resolution?

"General," Winry said, and only after she said it did she realize that it was her own way of punishing him. Mustang turned to her, and Winry could see that he sensed it, too. She marched up to him, stared at him hard, her head tilted up farther than she was used to. "You don't want to jeopardized anything? Then don't blow me off."

He set a hand on her upper arm, his fingers applying just enough pressure for Winry to know that she had gotten his attention. "I apologize," he intoned.

So that's how he did it, Winry thought. He wasn't better at taking it all in stride than she was. He was just a better faker.

"So what now?" she asked because Winry was never good at pretending. She was good at laying it all out on a platter between them, at wringing answers out of people, at making someone uncomfortable enough to take her seriously.

A little part of her was ready to be strummed again, wanted it, and that part sang so loudly. She knew that if Mustang even inched his fingers toward those strings, she couldn't resist.

"Are we," Winry began. She sighed and shrugged. "Could we be friends like normal people? You know, you just be Edward's boss, and I just be Edward's girlfriend, and that's that?"

She watched her words run through him, his mind processing it. "I think it would be quixotic to try."

"I was afraid you'd say that."

Winry didn't realize that she was stealing quick, expectant glances at his mouth until he had realized it, too.

Then Mustang laughed at her, kissed her forehead through her bangs, and clapped her on the shoulder again. "I'll see you around," he said, one hand on the doorknob. "Thanks for dinner."

Winry nodded and understood. "Good night, General," she said. "I'll lock up behind you."

Once she had heard him leave through the front door, Winry gave it a few minutes and then went downstairs to do as she had said.


	13. The TradeOff

**A/N: **I live! Had to take a hiatus to get married. Well, the hiatus was mostly to accommodate the _planning_ of the wedding-unless you're eloping, by the by, do yourself a favor and don't plan your own wedding-but that's done and now I can get back to the important things. Like fanfiction.

**XIII. The Trade-Off**

Had the tension in the office not already curdled the air to nigh solid, the oppressive heat of the newborn summer would have. To make matters worse, the air conditioning was not working on the fourth floor, and Edward was just about ready to start transmuting ice blocks from the water content of interns.

Lieutenant Ross came in that morning, first to arrive as usual, with little desire to be there. There were so many factors at play against her in that office, and while enough time had passed for her to get her firm grasp on her reason back, she still hated the case, their secret case that always boiled just below the surface. And now, with her rationality as present as the desk under her fingertips, she couldn't, for the life of her, think of how to address the things she had said to the General. That they certainly required addressing she knew. Mustang knew it. Havoc must know it. Edward probably had an inkling. And it would remain like another soldier in the room until she could do it. Until then, she would feel like a monster every time she met the General's gaze, the General who probably had had no idea that she knew anything about the circumstances surrounding Hawkeye's transfer.

Edward arrived in a similar state of social withdrawal. Winry had not come home the night before. The second night in a row. Had not called or anything. While he assumed she probably made her way back to her apartment, there was the part of him that still believed that she was pretty much in a sort of low-grade danger all the time in any given situation. And when he managed to put that instinct away, there was always the knowledge that Winry was back at her place by way of Mustang's house for a long, cold, unchaperoned night. And that left him seething. Just fucking seething.

Edward positioned himself at the window behind Mustang's desk as he weighed out the pros and cons of taking out some of Mustang's teeth to match that big, dumb eyepatch of his.

Havoc came in whistling, but upon striking the wall of bad blood just within the door, he knocked that the hell off.

Mustang was either feeling less tactful or less apathetic than usual and immediately announced as he headed for his desk, "I've gotten higher morale out of a doorstop. Am I going to have to call HR for a feelings session or a we going to get to work?"

When only Havoc responded—with a perhaps overly generous chuckle—Mustang realized that this might require more juggling than he had anticipated. And judging by the way Edward watched Mustang as he approached, the younger alchemist was going to volunteer to be dealt with first. Odd, he thought, considering that Edward's mood had been less antagonistic—gloomy, certainly, but he hadn't looked so damn menacing—the morning before, when he and Mustang had shared that rather awkward phone call about rather incriminating sleeping arrangements.

"Can I have a word," Edward said, his back to the window. It was not a question. He gestured to the hallway.

"I imagine you'll want more than one," Mustang intoned.

Edward gave a bitter laugh. "Just you wait," he answered and brushed by his superior. Mustang stood for a moment, feeling the ache in his jaw, before following Edward out the door, leaving Ross and Havoc exchanging puzzled glances.

They stepped into a vacant conference room adjacent to the Double-A—a long corridor of a room occupied by a heavy, wooden table—and Mustang closed the door behind him. Edward stood within and turned on Mustang, who was ready and waiting for the barrage.

"You're going to look me in the eye," Edward said, never one for preambles, "And you're going to tell me what happened."

This was, of course, a predictable exchange, and try as he might to deny it even to himself, Mustang had been playing out explanations the whole drive there. He had pictured himself blowing out a long-suffering sigh and telling the story slowly, condescendingly. He had pictured himself laughing at the kid and giving him an exposition that was more teasing, unanswered question than it was explanation. But now, standing face to face with Edward, Mustang found himself irritated.

"Your pregnant girlfriend showed up on my porch at ten o'clock at night without a coat, that's what happened," Mustang said, his voice level with a cold smoothness. There was an accusation there, just below the surface, and Mustang felt an undeniable spark of anger with Edward. It seemed his frustration with Ed's mistreatment of the girl was an effective enough surrogate for his frustration with himself, and as Mustang stood his ground, he found he was better able to meet his gaze. "I handed her a towel, put her up in the guestroom, and gave her cab fare in the morning." The events of the subsequent evening, Mustang decided, he would not disclose unless under duress.

Edward did not look convinced.

"Did you talk to her about it?" Mustang knew he had not. If Edward had, he would either be significantly calmer or significantly angrier depending on Winry's fabrication skills.

"No!" Edward barked. "I haven't heard anything since the morning I called you," he said, "Which was weird enough, by the way. But when she was gone another night? Well, let's say I'm fairly suspicious." He narrowed his eyes at Mustang. "People with nothing to hide don't act like they're hiding."

"That's one unfounded assumption you could make. Or perhaps she wants to sort things out away from your company."

Edward scowled. "Or perhaps she knows that I know what an amoral philanderer you—"

"That's enough, Ed," Mustang bit out. He stepped forward, using his height to his advantage. Having had just about enough of this game—which he had started and facilitated and participated in—he leaned closer and lowered his voice. "You want to make this personal? We can make this personal."

Ed jaw tightened. "You already have," he snarled before brushing by Mustang once more—he clipped the General's shoulder with his as he passed.

That, of course, was true. Edward had no idea how true it was, and once he was gone, Mustang slumped just slightly and put a hand over his eye because it was getting more personal every time he thought about her. And he was having a very difficult time not thinking about her that morning. All aspects of her, of the exchange. The unconscionable things she said to him. His unthinkable reply. Her response. And his pathetic attempt to leave with his dignity intact.

Yeah. So much for that.

Mustang straightened his shoulders and rubbed the skin under his eyepatch—a little gesture of vulnerability before he left the relative safety of his solitude. While it would be easy to allow his personal troubles take up a position in the forefront of his mind, there were other issues to address. Mustang found some degree of comfort in it, which was horrible, he knew, but it was, indeed, a distraction.

The Double-A office was stuffy and quiet when Mustang returned. Havoc and Edward stood over his desk, Edward flipping through files in the inbox while Havoc read over his shoulder. Ross was setting up a typewriter—the one typewriter they all shared amongst them—on her desk and seemed quite absorbed with getting a sheaf of paper fed in just right.

"Forget those," Mustang said to Edward and Havoc, both of whom made no effort to hide what they were doing when he came in.

"Why?" Edward asked, peering over the edge of a folder.

Mustang felt some bit of relief at that. Edward seemed to be willing to put aside the whole love-triangle business—Mustang almost laughed out loud at the thought. He was too old for this shit.

"There's been another body fished from the river this morning," Mustang said.

That got everyone's attention

"How'd you hear about it?" Edward asked, snapping the folder shut and tossing it onto Mustang's desk.

"Aside from the small swarm of MP's mobilizing this morning?" he asked rhetorically—that, as they all knew, could have been indication of just about anything. Mustang, however, had an insight the others did not. "An anonymous call," he said. "Very early. On my personal phone." Mustang sank into his desk chair and looked up at his subordinates. "So early, in fact, that I believe it to have been placed by someone involved in dumping the body. And, I need you two," he looked at Havoc and Ed, "to find a way to get to that body."

"How the hell do you expect us to do that?" Edward asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

Ross clipped the end of his question. "General, considering the nature of this case, do you really think it's a good idea to follow an anonymous tip?" she asked, rising to her feet.

"Do you mean the nature of the case or the politics of the case?" Mustang asked, smooth as glass. Ross furrowed her brow. "It's been made clear to me that the only way to get this case put under our jurisdiction is to do it ourselves. And that's exactly what we're going to do."

"Well, that's inspirational and all," Edward interjected, "But that doesn't help Havoc and me get into that crime scene."

"The MP's haven't left headquarters yet," Mustang said. "I suggest you make your way with them."

"Oh, great. We'll just find a couple guys our size, mug them, and take their uniforms, then?" Edward offered mordantly. He missed Havoc's rolling his eyes.

"You know that thing you do sometimes, Ed," Havoc began slowly, "that thing where you clap your hands and then alter your surroundings to meet your needs? Do you think _that_ could help us get uniforms?"

Ross snorted and covered her mouth with her hand. Mustang smirked.

Edward looked from Mustang to Havoc and back again. He grumbled a string of expletives under his breath, clapped his hands, and pressed them to his chest. In a controlled flash, like a slow-burning fuse, a halo of light began around Edward's shoulders and traveled down to his boots, leaving behind the dull grey-blue of a significantly less embellished military police uniform.

"Wow," Havoc said, stepping around Edward once the transmutation was complete. "You've even got the little brassard and everything." He plucked at Edward's arm band.

"I know. I sort of have an eye for details." Edward replied tightly. "Hold still."

Havoc did as directed. "Be gentle with me," he whimpered, eliciting a rye laugh from Mustang. Snorting, Edward clapped and lay his right hand on Havoc's sleeve. The same ring of light crawled down Havoc, this process taking rather longer than it did for Edward. When it was complete, Havoc and Edward stood across from one another in their matching uniforms.

"If we really want to be discrete, we need hats," Havoc said as he fiddled with a newly starless shoulderboard.

Edward rubbed his chin. "Gimme one of your gloves, Mustang," he said, turning on his superior.

Mustang scoffed. "Like hell, I will."

Edward flashed a narrow-eyed glance at Mustang and turned to Havoc. "You got a handkerchief or something? Preferably one that isn't full of snot."

"You're in luck," Havoc said, brandishing a folded handkerchief from his back pocket. "I left my snotty one at home today."

Edward clapped his hands and jabbed a finger into the square of white linen hanging in Havoc's grasp. In a quick burst of light, the handkerchief vanished, leaving in its place a the rigid curves of a grey service cap. Havoc appraised it for a moment before pushing his bangs back with his free hand and setting the hat in place.

Lieutenant Ross volunteered her also mucus-free handkerchief to complete Edward's uniform, and once fully suited up, Mustang gave them the particulars of their task, or, at least, he gave them all that he knew. His early-morning caller had disclosed nothing about the location of the body. Some surreptitious eavesdropping around the breakroom had revealed that the body had been reported to the police at eight-thirty that morning by two trash collectors who were working to remove a tangle of rebar that had been discarded in the river near the bridge. Upon finding the corpse, one of them left the scene to alert the authorities while the other man remained. Most importantly, they had not moved the body yet.

"I doubt you'll be able to sneak into the convoy, but you won't have any trouble blending in at the scene," Mustang said. "Take one of your personal vehicles. Be sure to park at least a block away—"

"Sir?" Havoc cut him off. "This isn't our first rodeo. We've got it."

"Good," Mustang replied. "Dismissed."

Edward turned to Havoc, adjusted his hat, and said, "Let's go fishing."

x

x

x

They did as instructed and parked a good distance from the crime scene. Edward looked around shiftily as he slid quarters into the parking meter, knowing how odd it would look to anyone who saw an MP feeding the meter. Havoc leaned against the hood of the car and lit his cigarette—Edward had forbidden him from smoking in the car—and waited.

"That should do," Edward said as he put in the last of his pocket change.

Havoc rose to his full height as Edward came around the front of the car and started in the direction of the river without a glance back. That struck Havoc as little odd, and he used his longer stride to catch up to Edward.

"Hey," he said around the filter of his cigarette. "You got a bug up your butt or something this morning?"

Edward stumbled a little at that and glared at him.

"I'm just saying," Havoc continued. "You're never a ray of sunshine or anything but you seem particularly pissed today."

They crossed the street at an intersection and headed south down a narrower, one-way street. Traffic was sparse at that time—most of the morning drivers were already at their destinations, and the lunch rush was not for another few hours. This side road passed between two shops, so that the sidewalks were lined with blank brick walls instead of storefronts.

Edward glared forward. "What are we, girlfriends or something?" he grumbled.

Havoc chuckled and spread his hands. "Sorry I asked," he said before plucking his cigarette out of his mouth and exhaling smoke.

As soon as the opportunity to rant about his troubles that morning had passed, Edward realized that he wished he had taken it. So he did. "Winry spent the night at Mustang's house a couple nights ago," Edward muttered.

Havoc blew out a long whistle. "All righty," he said. "I'm staying out of this one."

"He said nothing happened, but fuck if I believe him." Edward thrust his hands in his pockets and hunched forward little as he walked.

"Have you talked to Winry about it?" Havoc asked.

"No," Edward said, chagrined. "She's pissed at me."

"I figured."

"She started talking about plans and stuff," Edward blurted, realizing that he wasn't going to be able to dam this one up just yet. "I've never really been much of planner. And I told her that. And the next thing I know, she's screaming her head off at me, and then she storms out of the house." Edward paused. "It was, maybe, ten o'clock at night. And it was raining. And she just marched off like an idiot."

"And she marched herself to _Mustang's_?" Havoc asked, incredulous.

"Apparently," Edward said and shrugged. "And I could pick up that bastard and throw him further than I trust him."

At the tail end of a cloudy sigh, Havoc said, "You know, he's not the same guy he used to be. As far as girlfriend-snatching goes, I mean."

Ed didn't looked convinced.

"I'm serious," Havoc said honestly. "I've left Amity alone with him before. I think he even took her out to lunch once or twice."

"That wouldn't be _girlfriend-_snatching, now would it?"

Havoc shrugged. "I suppose not. Still I haven't worried about it since... well, I guess it hasn't been a problem since we all got reassigned." Havoc meant, of course, since Mustang had been irreparably disfigured while fighting the Fuhrer. "What was that? Five? Six years ago?" They took a left and walked down a street that ran parallel to the river. "I thought as soon as Lieutenant Hawkeye transferred, he'd be back at it."

"What's Hawkeye got to do with it?" Edward asked, watching the road ahead.

"They were co-habitating for a minute there," Havoc answered like this was old news. "As far as I know, they didn't part on very good terms, and then she was off to Eastern."

Edward had not known. He never made a habit out of knowing much of his colleagues' business, but he wondered how he could have missed all that. He had worked with the both of them for years, been acting as Mustang's second-in-command when Hawkeye left. Certainly, Lieutenant Hawkeye's transfer had been sudden, but her story had been convincing enough. There was a part of Edward—barely a fingernail, but a part nevertheless—that was taken aback and, indeed, felt a little guilty. There were days when he would rather give the General a bloody nose than look at him, but Edward knew that Hawkeye's leaving—and all the clandestine circumstances surrounding that—must have been hard on the man. Edward looked down at the scuffs on his boots and muttered, "I'm surprised he didn't go on a hedonistic rampage to make up for lost time."

"I don't know much about it. I don't particularly want to know. I'm just saying," Havoc flicked the butt of his spent cigarette into a trashcan by a lamp post, "I don't think you need to worry about Winry."

Edward looked at Havoc out of the corner of his eye.

"Besides," he added, "If I were you, I'd be more concerned about the fight that made my lady friend take off than I would be about where she went."

Edward didn't have anything so say to that.

Up ahead of them, the road was roped off, and a smattering of civilians hugged the partition. The crowd seemed awfully thin for a murder scene, Edward thought. He then noticed that there weren't representatives from any newspapers there, no jarring flashbulbs or pushy reporters. That struck Ed as quite odd, but he put that to the back of his mind and focused, instead, on shouldering his way through the few people there.

Slipping into the crime scene was, as Mustang had predicted, quite easy. Edward and Havoc had, of course, gone undercover before. Never as MP's and never to homicide scenes, but infiltration was not terribly new to them. The key, Edward had discovered, was simply to belong. So, without hesitation, Edward lifted the tape demarcating the crime scene with the back of his wrist and stepped under. Havoc followed behind him.

Other MP's were milling about, taking photographs here and gathering samples there. For every three MP's there was a single investigator, typically in the blue uniform of a soldier. The thickest throng of men was between two buildings—a bait and tackle shop and an ice cream parlor—and stretched to the head of a wide, two-lane bridge.

Havoc and Edward made their way around the ice cream parlor. The bank sloped away sharply behind the parlor, which had a large, wooden back deck on concrete pylons, and Edward found his progress significantly slowed as he had to pick his way around the porch beams and the slanted terrain. The slope down to the river had been paved over decades ago, and the concrete was cracked and uneven. With his right hand on the angled ground, Edward made his way down the bank in a slow, controlled slide. The last five feet leading up to the river were flat, and Edward slowed himself and then straightened once on level ground. Havoc came sliding down behind him, but the shift from sloped to flat ground tripped him up and nearly launched him into the river. Edward reached out to his left and snagged Havoc's arm, yanking him back. Havoc wobbled for a moment, but then righted himself.

"That would have sucked," he breathed as he fixed his hat and adjusted his uniform cuffs.

The heat down near that river was much less intense. The manmade gully created a sort of wind tunnel and maintained the air just a few degrees cooler. Unfortunately, because of the constant breeze, the smell of the crime scene struck Ed and Havoc immediately. The river itself was not notably pristine in the first place, and the blood and the heat did nothing to improve it.

"For the love of God," Havoc muttered, putting the cuff of his right sleeve over his nose.

Edward chuckled dryly. "The only thing worse than a homicide is a water-logged homicide."

The base of the bridge to their left was clustered with five or six MP's and a single investigator. While some of the men were painstakingly collecting data, quite a few were standing back, brandishing their weapons unthreateningly. They stood very still, Edward noted, with their backs to the crouched group of men that, Edward assumed, was circled around the body.

Without prompt, Havoc drew his sidearm and followed along behind Edward, and once they were close enough, he blended seamlessly in with the MP's standing guard. Edward, on the other hand, made sure his pony tail was tucked well into his hat and approached the body.

Two MP's crouched on one side of the girl while Edward and Havoc's favorite creeper, Dr. Conner, knelt on the opposite side.

As soon as Edward saw the doctor, he sucked in his breath. The sound of his quiet gasp drew the group's attention, and for a long, frozen moment, Edward's mind went blank. His cover was blown. This was it. He stared at Conner, waiting and paralyzed.

The doctor looked over his glasses at Edward with a blank stare. He took a moment to look Edward over, and then his lips curled into a smile that let Edward know instantly both that Conner remembered him and that Edward was at his mercy.

"Officer," Conner greeted coolly, no outward trace of recognition in his voice.

Edward almost slumped over in relief.

"Doctor," Edward replied.

"This isn't for the faint of heart," Conner said in response to Ed's gasp. "Are you going to be all right, son?"

"I'm fine," he said and knelt next to the coroner. "What do we have?" Edward asked.

Conner drew in a long breath and screwed up his mouth thoughtfully. He gestured to the body, a scrawny young thing with limbs like knobby branches. She had mousy brown hair spilled out beneath her and big, flat black eyes that stared up into the morning sky. Her thin lips were just parted, opening into a black and wretched abyss.

She was, like all the other girls, slit open and gapping. She had more of her organs intact than Pyrrha Pulliam had had, and Edward was having a hard time not staring at her glistening viscera.

The doctor looked from Edward to the two MP's across from him. "You gentlemen want to grab us some coffee?" Conner asked, plastering on a condescending smile. "It's awful early, don't you think?" The two MP's exchanged an irritated glance but clearly took the hint. They rose to their feet and left.

Once they were alone, Conner seemed to ease. "I had a feeling I was going to be seeing you again, Major Elric." Edward could hear the smug in Conner's voice, and he was not entirely sure how he felt about the doctor's knowing his name. "Another little girl, it seems," Conner went on. "I'm going to guess she's fourteen or fifteen. They've already got men rounding up the hookers in the area to try to ID her."

"You got a spare one of those?" Edward asked, gesturing to the long, black, rubber glove Conner had on.

"You a leftie?" Conner asked, pulling off his left glove.

"Fortunately," Edward answered and accepted.

The glove was hot and damp with the doctor's sweat, and while Edward's tolerance for the grotesque was certainly staunch, the sensation of warm, wet rubber on his skin almost pushed him over his squeamishness threshold. Edward wiped his forehead with the back of his right hand.

"Look at this," Conner said once Edward had donned the glove. The doctor folded back the curtains of skin hanging from the girl's abdomen and began pushing his hand into her flesh. He curled his hand around something and scooped up a brownish organ. He began to press his thumb into different spots on the flesh. Edward could see the difference in texture from one spot to another. "I'd say this stomach's almost fifty percent calcified."

Edward hazarded a poke at the organ. It felt like a rubbery sack of rocks.

"The girl still has at least three-quarters of her liver intact," Edward noted, pointing at a dark red slab of meat the doctor had pushed aside. "She hasn't been in the water that long."

"Good eye," Conner said, clearly impressed.

As Edward was putting the liver back into place, he inched his foot forward and accidentally toed the girl's wrist. The limp limb rolled slightly to the side and flopped back when Edward moved away. "She's limp," Edward said, making a note of that. "Either she died in the last two hours or it's been a while."

"Ah, but she only has minor hypostasis," Conner said. He lifted the arm closest to him and rolled the girl's shoulder up, to reveal a slight purplish blush on her back.

"That doesn't mean anything," Edward replied. "She's been tossing around in a river. Plus she's been sliced open."

"I wouldn't be so sure," Conner corrected as he set the body back. "The Teague isn't exactly whitewater. Plus, whoever's been doing this is very precise; she would bleed for certain, but there's still plenty in there. Give it five or six hours, and her blood would be congealed in place. If she'd been in the water long enough to sleep off the rigor mortis, her back half would be purple as a plum." Conner stood up and pulled off his glove. Edward followed. "Plus, as you _astutely_ noted, she's still got a liver. Livers are good eating if you're a scavenger. I'm going to guess this girl hasn't been dead more than two, three hours tops. Let me get a thermometer in her, and I can tell you more exactly."

Edward resolved to ignore Conner's last statement and all the mental images that came with it. So, all the evidence seemed to suggest that this girl had been killed _very_ recently, and Mustang had received his anonymous tip at about five that morning, right around Conner's proposed time of death. But that would have to mean that someone involved in this string of murders wanted Mustang to know about it before everyone else. And that struck up a notable parallel, Edward thought, with his stolen and redirected mail from Russell, which seemed to suggest that someone wanted Mustang to know about the red water before Edward did. And then there was the matter of the man who broke into his house and attacked Russell—a case which the police had ruled was simply a robbery gone wrong. But Edward knew better. Burglars go for easy targets, and a house full of people was not one. Something in his gut told him it wasn't a coincidence that the premier authority on redwater would be the only one attacked, too. He almost put his hand to his mouth pensively, but he paused. He didn't really want anything near his mouth at the moment.

"There's no way of knowing how long she was snagged under this bridge, but at the rate this river's flowing..." Conner said, sounding as though he was thinking about loud. He stepped closer to the water's edge and looked upriver.

Edward watched the doctor. "Someone dumped this body near here," Edward said, nodding in understanding as he tugged off Conner's glove and passed it back to the doctor. "Possibly very near here."

He knew their next step.

Edward felt eyes on him, and he looked up to see Dr. Conner watching him. There was a question behind that gaze, and Ed's only response was to pull his hat down a little further, pocket his hands, and turn toward Havoc, who still stalwartly stood guard. As Edward approached the ring of MP's, he saw another officer push through, a heavy, black camera in his hands. Edward made a point to snag the brim of his hat and tilt his head just slightly away from the man.

"We're done here," Edward muttered as he brushed by Havoc. Havoc made no sign of hearing him except to fall in line behind Edward. He returned his pistol to his back holster and snapped the thumb break into place. Together, Edward and Havoc began the climb up the cement bank to the road above.

MP's still loitered in the street. More of them, however, were dedicated to shooing away onlookers now, standing at the tape with hands resting on pistols. Edward climbed up onto the sidewalk first and moved to the side as Havoc came up behind him.

"Did we get what we came here for?" Havoc asked under his breath as he and Edward walked toward a less crowded alleyway.

"Oh, yes," Edward said. "And more."

"Good," Havoc said, "Because I think we just got spotted."

"_What?_" Edward hissed. He almost spun around to look behind them but he stopped himself.

"Hey, you two!" a voice bellowed from behind them.

Edward clenched his fists for a moment. Fortunately, it was not a voice he recognized. After breathing a bracing breath, Edward turned. Havoc did the same.

A middle-aged man in a soldier's uniform was fast approaching them. A lieutenant, Edward noted from the stars that flashed as the man marched up to them. He was nondescript. Doughy, brown hair and eyes. Edward was not certain if he had seen him before.

"Sir," Havoc said first, snapping a salute. It had been so long since Edward had had to deal with that charade that he was just a beat behind him.

"I don't remember seeing you at the briefing," the Lieutenant said, narrowing his eyes.

"I apologize, sir. We came in late," Havoc barked, not making eye contact.

The Lieutenant set his arms akimbo and leaned forward. Edward swallowed, and it sounded like he was gulping a like a fish in his ears. "I haven't seen you around headquarters," he said suspiciously.

"We just transferred, sir," Havoc explained, having, apparently, taken the role of superior in this little fiction. This often seemed to be their dynamic because of Havoc's being older. "I'm Sergeant Fightmaster," he said, the pause between his rank and name only perceptible to Edward who was listening for it. "And this is," Havoc glanced out the side of his eye at Ed, "Private Shortz."

Edward clenched his jaw.

"Where do you think you're going?" the Lieutenant asked, having apparently bought their act.

"Sir," Havoc said, still standing with his hand held to his brow. "I saw civilians loitering in this alley and the adjacent street."

Edward stood motionless, frozen in a salute as well. He pointedly stared past the Lieutenant to the street beyond. While the Lieutenant seemed to be processing Havoc's story, Edward watched as a familiar general strode into the snapshot of the street created by the walls of the alley. Edward felt the creeping tightness of time-sensitive panic in his throat.

"All right," the Lieutenant said without sounding entirely convinced. "Take position over there. You're on crowd control." He pointed down the alley toward a parallel street.

"Sir," Havoc and Edward said simultaneously.

Edward had not realized that he was holding his breath until the Lieutenant was gone and he and Havoc were hurrying down the alley. When he finally exhaled, it came out as, "We're fucked."

"We're not fucked," Havoc hissed.

"No, we're fucked," Edward corrected. "Berman just walked up. If he sees us—"

"He's not going to see us if we get the hell out of here."

They marched as fast as they could without being too conspicuous. Havoc's stride took him farther, faster than Edward, and Havoc was out of the alley and around the corner before Edward could catch up. He felt he was just another step away from safety, from a clean get away. He was ready to break into a run when he heard from behind him, "Shortz!"

_Fuck fuck fuck_, he thought as he tried to ignore the voice calling his persona back. When the Lieutenant called a second and third time, Edward knew he wasn't going to get out of this one.

He was just about to step into the sunshine in the street when he stopped, turned back down the alley, and saluted. "Sir?" he said.

And there was the Lieutenant, General Berman close behind.

x

x

x

Save the arrhythmic, mechanical tapping of the keys under Ross's fingers, the office was quiet. Mustang slouched back in his chair, one elbow propping himself up against the armrest. In his other hand, he held the second page of a report from Havoc. It was clearly a joint effort from Havoc and Edward, Mustang thought: while Havoc could give an efficient, clear report, he didn't throw around the complex sentences liberally, so when Mustang's eyes passed over something more sophisticated than the basics, it felt like hitting a speed bump while going forty miles per hour. A subtle editor, Edward was not.

_Tap tap tap DING._

Ross felt like she could dedicate only a fraction of her brain to her report as Mustang sat over by the window, generating a near-palpable pressure in the room. She had been working away for almost an hour now, and honestly, panic-typing was going much faster than regular typing. Ross was almost done with her report, which she would then pull out of the carriage, proof quickly, and hand to her supervisor. And then she would sit in the syrupy silence with nothing to distract her.

She set a hand on her the back of her neck and rubbed small circles with her fingertips. She wasn't supposed to know about this, she thought. Truly, Riza never should have told her. Ross imagined that, had Riza had any other friends in town to drive her home from the doctor, Ross herself would never have been involved. And on that twenty-minute drive from the university to the General's house, Riza had told a story Ross could not have anticipated. For the subsequent weeks, Ross found that she had to will herself to make eye contact with the General when she spoke to him, to see him as she always saw him. As her superior, her shrewd leader. Not as an aloof, mercurial, solitude-aholic who—

Ross blinked hard and focused.

"General," Ross heard herself say. She could have been hurling imprecations in a monastery and it would have been less jarring.

Mustang flicked his eye up at her from his report.

She bunched her hands in her lap under the desk. "Permission to speak freely?"

The General sat forward and tossed the report onto his desk. "Am I going to regret granting it?" This was such an odd exchange, Mustang thought. Not a one of his other subordinates ever sought dispensation to be candid.

"That's not my intention," Ross said, keeping her eyes on him.

Mustang made an open-palmed gesture at her, a motion offering her the floor.

"General," Ross began. She glanced down at her hands. "What I said was untoward."

"Lieutenant," Mustang said, putting his elbows on his desk, "My biggest concern is not about anything personal, although a little discretion would be appreciated." Ross glanced down again. "My biggest concern is the effect this case is having on you."

"I know, sir," Ross said. She stood up at that and came around her desk to stand before Mustang. She opened her mouth to continue, but Mustang cut her off.

"I don't have any use for subordinates who crumble under pressure. And, to be honest, while this case is trying, this is nothing like some of the things I've asked of my subordinates in the past."

"With all due respect, General—"

"Do me a favor, Ross," Mustang said, holding up his hand, "I'd would rather you began your sentences with 'Fuck you, sir' than some pantomime of courtesy. It feels less contrived."

Ross blinked. That might have been the first time she'd heard Mustang drop the f-bomb. "Well, I... sir," she stumbled before regaining her composure, "I was going to say that I think I've proven that I don't make a habit of crumbling. I know you've never asked me to coordinate a coup with you, but I think I've been a damn good subordinate these four years."

Mustang smirked. It was true. Ross was not a part of his company when he was really wringing them dry; no, she joined once the worst was done. But he had worked her hard, had made some rather unreasonable requests. From coercing her pose as a buyer to infiltrate an alchemically-enhanced opium trafficking ring to making her meet with Accounting every June to discuss why the Double-A was over budget _again_, he had certainly assigned her to some doozies.

"I know I'm not an alchemist," Ross said, "And I wasn't working under you during, well..."

"The Glory Years?" Mustang offered dryly, meaning the chapters of his life when idealistic ambition and pussy were what got him out of bed every morning.

"Uh, yes," she continued, "But, I—" Ross caught herself then. She was stepping forward, hands open, and the sound of pleading was spreading like cracks through her tone. This was not how she spoke to her General, and Mustang's face said just how unreceptive he was this odd, beseeching stance of hers. Ross stood straight and slammed her hands down by her sides. "It won't happen again, sir."

A smile tugged at the corner of the General's mouth but did not reach his eyes. "Good," he said. "You—"

The door to the Double-A office opened suddenly. Ross and Mustang both jumped slightly and looked up to see a somewhat worn Major General Berman march into the room. His jaw was clenched, and a lock of dark hair had fallen limply across his forehead. It jumped in time with his fast, heavy footfalls.

Mustang rose to his feet and saluted only a moment after Ross had snapped to attention.

"This has gone too far, Brigadier General Mustang," Berman barked. Mustang felt a mix of cold dread and chagrin begin to percolate through him.

From outside the hallway, a familiar voice snapped, "_I can find my way into my own goddamn office. You don't have to escort me!_" Then there was some scuffling along with Edward's guttural sounds of exasperation. Then Edward and Havoc, still in their MP uniforms, were guided in through the door, a pair of MP's—real ones—steering them both with a hand on either man's shoulder. Edward made a show of pulling out of the grasp of his guard while Havoc walked straight and silent, his mouth pressed tight and his eyes leveled on Mustang.

Dropping his hand from its rigid salute, Mustang felt his shoulders slump a fraction.

"What is the meaning of this?" Berman demanded, stepping to the side as the guards brought Havoc and Edward directly up to Mustang's desk.

"Sir," Mustang began. This was it, he thought. He'd pushed too far. Berman's toes were crushed, and he was out for blood. Mustang opened his mouth to continue.

"I told you already!" Edward interjected, making a show of being irritated at having to repeat himself. "Brigadier General Mustang didn't have anything to do with this!"

Mustang didn't falter. He knew when he was being bailed out. "What's going on here, Fullmetal? Lieutenant?" he asked, his voice steely.

"I'm sorry, sir," Havoc said without a trace of sorrow in his voice. Mustang met his eyes.

Berman crossed his arms over his chest and looked from subordinates to superior and back. "Your men were apprehended sneaking into a crime scene. _My_ crime scene, Mustang." Berman pointed to their uniforms. "They impersonated MP's and lied to a Lieutenant. I could have your pocket watch for this," Berman harped at Ed.

"Fullmetal," Mustang ground out.

"I know this case involves alchemy, sir," Edward plead, hamming it up. "_I just know it._" He lurched forward at Mustang's desk and slammed his hands down. The resultant _bang _made Berman jolt. "No one will believe me, so I'm going to prove it myself!"

"That's enough," Mustang said, furrowing his brow and closing his eye.

"I'm telling you, sir!" Edward cried.

"I said, _that's enough._"

Edward recoiled. Had Berman not been standing there, Mustang would have laughed: Ed had never recoiled from him before and probably never would again. It was a believable fiction, though, judging from the look on Berman's face. Mustang blew out a long breath through his nose and looked to Berman. "My apologies, sir. I'll deal with this."

Berman stood for a moment, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked down his long, straight nose at Mustang. "You know what it means if this happens again, Mustang," Berman threatened.

"It won't," Mustang bit out, turning a stoney expression on Ed, who was glaring at the floor, and Havoc, who continued to stare at him. He switched his gaze back to Berman and dropped forward into a bow that didn't quite reach his waist. "Again, I apologize for my subordinates' behavior."

The muscles in Havoc's jaw stood out against his cheek.

That seemed to satisfy the Major General, who parted with some Good Soldier's Handbook tripe about accountability and respect. He then led the MP's out of the office and shut the door with a solid bang.

The following silence was thick as the humidity. The three men stared at one another, and Ross sank back into her chair and rubbed her eyes. When the staring contest decidedly began excluding him, Havoc pulled a cigarette from his pocket and stormed over to the tall windows behind Mustang's desk.

"What the hell was a _Major General_ doing at a crime scene?" Edward asked, his words fringed with accusation. A man with Berman's status had lackeys for that kind of thing.

Mustang remained standing. "I have no idea." He meant it. And Edward believed him.

Edward watched him for a long moment, waited to gauge the General's response. As usual, Edward couldn't read him, but he could guess. Yes, Edward thought, I knew what I was doing.

"Now we're even," Edward said lowly.

Mustang furrowed his brow a fraction.

Edward dropped his gaze off to the left, and he muttered, "You looked out for Winry when she needed it. When I couldn't." Mustang feared it was audible when he swallowed. "So now we're even." With that, Edward turned and slumped off to his desk.

The finality of the phrase struck Mustang. Perhaps Edward had grown some subtlety, and while there was, indeed, a veneer of gratitude to Edward's conclusion, beneath that, there was a threat. A sort of _I won't bring this up again unless you make me_. Mustang felt more than a little shame to be butting heads with a kid fifteen years his younger, but he had known what he was getting into as soon as he had gotten himself into it. Or, at least, he had immediately afterward.

Once the younger alchemist was busy transmuting his uniform to normal and his hat to a handkerchief, Mustang allowed himself the generosity of one vulnerable moment. It was only a blink of faltering as he glanced into the tangle of things that came to mind when he thought of _looking out_ for Winry. And then he slammed the door on that one.

x

x

x

The house was buzzing pleasantly and filled with the warm, savory smell of pepper and onions when Edward came home. Despite the sinking sun, the lights were out in all the rooms save the kitchen at the end of the foyer. Edward could hear the radio and hot sizzling and the hollow clunking of a wooden spoon on a metal pot, and Edward felt bodily enticed toward the back of his house.

Through the shadowy, empty hall he moved, and he came into the soft, yellow glow of the lamp over the stove. Winry was standing before the oven, humming along and rocking from side to side in time with the rich, gravelly voice of the female singer.

Edward watched her shadow, taller and narrower than herself, sliding over the linoleum before bringing his eyes to Winry's back. In the heat of the kitchen, she was wearing jeans and a thin-strapped, white shirt. Edward recognized it as one of his undershirts.

He watched her shoulders working as she stirred the pot on his stove, watched her bare toes tapping his kitchen floor, watched her ponytail sway like a pendulum back and forth before her isthmus of a waist. And, God, was he ever glad to see her.

"Where is everyone?" Edward asked. There was a slew of other things he wanted to say to her, and he felt them bottlenecking in his throat. This neutral lump of banality came out instead.

Winry jumped and turned. "Oh, Ed," she said, placing a hand on her chest. She then leaned back against the stove, her hands folded behind her tailbone. "Alphonse went out with some friends from school, I think Sophia and Fletcher are off necking somewhere, and Russell..." she put a finger on her chin, "You know, I haven't seen him all night. Maybe he's in the basement?"

The answer was as dissatisfying to hear as the question had been to ask. And Edward felt Winry watching him, waiting for him. She stared at him for a long moment, her face soft and expectant.

Edward swallowed.

"I didn't know when to expect you home," Edward offered. He hoped that that could be the segue Winry needed to begin the fixing. Because she was always the one who did the fixing.

And then she was giving him an expression he knew too well. It was the face she made when he was disappointing her.

With a brusque sigh, Edward turned away, fell back against the fridge, and slid to the floor. He sat, his legs splayed across the floor, and refused to meet Winry's eyes as she lowered herself to the linoleum to his right, her legs tucked close to her. His hand dangled loosely between his legs, and he watched as Winry reached over and took his right hand in her left. There was muted pressure, perhaps the abstraction of distant warmth, but other than that, he couldn't feel her.

"Everything's happened so fast," Winry said.

"I know," Ed replied.

"Too fast?"

"I think so."

He saw her squeeze his fingers more than he felt it. "I've decided to move back into my apartment, Ed. I think it's best."

That hurt a little, and because Edward couldn't let her know that, he got mad. "When did you decide that?" Why was he getting mad? He knew just as well as she that Winry's moving out was probably the best thing they could do.

"I thought a lot about it when I was at Roy's, and I—"

"_Roy's?_" Edward demanded, looking up at her. Even in the dim light, he could see her cheeks turn pink. "You're on first name basis with him now?"

The fact that Edward had not stormed right up to her and lost his shit immediately upon finding her in his house let Winry know that Roy had been discreet, and she had hoped—God, had she hoped—that she could pretend to find it as much of a non-issue as Roy had. She had planned to sidestep the subject entirely. But no.

And because Winry couldn't let Edward know that, she got mad. "As a matter of fact, I am. He was really generous, you know. I'm not sure what else I would have done."

Edward glared at his feet. "You would have turned your butt around and come back here," Ed groused.

Winry dropped his hand, and when he looked back up at her, he saw another face he knew. He'd hurt her. He was hurting her. She looked so sad, so profoundly sad. She let out a wet sort of laugh and shook her head, but her smile was tight, a last restraint against tears.

"No, I wouldn't have," she said. "I think this is the problem here, Ed," she explained. "You don't know anything about me, and I don't know anything about you."

"That's bullsh—" Edward began.

"No," she cut him off, "I mean that..." Winry looked up and away into a dark corner of the kitchen as she thought. "I mean that people are like the rings on the tree. In the middle there's you or me or whoever, and everyone they know falls along those rings. There are the people who are closest and the people who are furtherest and the whole range in between. But with you, Ed," Winry looked down. She brought her hands together, curled one loosely around the other, "There's Al," she said and brought her hands a foot apart as though she were describing a circle in the air, "And then there's everyone else."

Edward stared. It was true.

"And I love you, Ed, I really do, but," she paused to swallow hard, "that might have worked when we were just, you know, whatever, but it's not going to work if I'm going to have this baby."

"What are you suggesting?" Edward managed.

Winry shook her head. "I'm suggesting you learn to let me in," she said, "And then you can forgive me for wanting to be with you," She dropped her hand on Ed's again. "I may not look it, but I know what I'm doing, and I'll choose right now to tough it out but only if you choose, too."

Edward felt like a monster because Winry seemed so ready to make that decision, so ready to hear him make it. But he wasn't ready. He didn't know when he would be.

She was doing that thing where she was watching him and waiting for him, and Edward knew he couldn't give her what she really wanted, so he gave her something else. He tightened his grip on her hand and jerked her closer. Winry was not expecting that, and she flopped rather awkwardly across his lap. Edward, it seemed, was not done arranging her, and after a series of motions that happened too fast and too deliberately for her to resist, Winry was seated between his legs, her back leaned against his front. She sat, her palms on his thighs, and felt his arms settle around her.

"Ask me something," he commanded. "Something you've always wanted to know but couldn't ask."

Winry blinked. Truly, with all the factors that went into the equation that was the last handful of seconds, the answer she expected to see after that equal sign was certainly not this. This, though, was pleasant, she realized. And, more importantly, she thought, this was Edward trying. He wasn't succeeding just yet, but Winry appreciated the effort.

"Are you gonna ask something or not?" Ed demanded.

Winry glared at him over her shoulder. "I'm thinking, jeez. Where's the friggin' fire, Ed?"

She ghosted her fingertips over the seam around Edward's left thigh, where his flesh met metal. She could feel the few inches of plating around his stump, the dings in the surface, the body heat collecting and radiating. "Where were you?" she asked. His hands tensed on her. "For those two years."

If Ed plotted this out on her annual ring metaphor, his answer would be rather like picking up Winry and moving her into a space occupied by only him and Alphonse. Not even Mustang knew the truth about Edward's stint on the other side of the Gate.

It was not an easy story to tell. For so many reasons. Just the complexity of the alchemic theory involved alone was enough to keep Edward from explaining. And then there was... the rest. Edward imagined it as a pit. Upon returning to Amestris—when his eyes refused to work and his voice was gone and his muscles were so weak he could only lie in his bed and let Winry and Alphonse keep him alive—Edward had felt like he spent his days dangling by his fingertips, looking up at his world, the depths of the pit waiting below to catch him, suck him away with a voracious darkness. With time, Edward managed to heave himself up to the ground, and the pit was ever-present, following him like a shadow. Then it was just a presence in his house, and he had to watch his step when moving through certain rooms at certain times. And now, the pit was still around, but Edward had managed to put a hatch on it. He could open it and fall in whenever he wanted to—and he let himself sometimes, an almost masturbatory self-pity and suffering. He wondered, now, if he could unlatch it and just look.

Edward knew he had taken too long when Winry patted his thigh resignedly and started to stand. He snatched her wrist, though, and tugged her back down.

"Germany," he blurted. "It was a country called Germany."

This, he thought, was as good a time as any to test his balance on the lip of that pit. Winry deserved as much.

It started as a trickle, just a thread of small words attached to small thoughts, and it was all Edward could manage. It was one of the darkest times of his life—he couldn't tell her, couldn't form words around the thing to make a mold—second only to the year following his and Al's failed attempt at human transmutation.

And Winry, he realized rather suddenly, had been there for that, hadn't she? The whole thing. She had seen it all, hadn't she?

Her hands were heavy and deliberate on him, her back steadily pressed to his front. She listened motionlessly, without interruption, and the trickle grew. It grew and it grew until, with a wrenching in his throat, Edward realized he was peering down the pit and describing to Winry what he saw within. He was telling her how he got there. He was telling her about his half-brother, Envy.

She did not gasp. She did not look at him over her shoulder.

He was telling her about his aching stumps, his wax flesh, his pointless claps, the oppressive impotence that hung in the air of that miserable place like a lead-bellied storm. Like a low, looming airship.

She did not ask if he ever thought about her. For that he was grateful.

She did ask, however, "How did you get back?"

This, unfortunately, Edward was never entirely sure about. He had a theory, though. "Envy was never meant to be on that side. A homunculus in a world without alchemy was, well, not possible," he said, watching their four feet—Winry's and his—laying on the linoleum before him. "He rejected that world or that world rejected him. Either way, he was like a wedge, and the Gate couldn't close properly with him there."

Winry gently squeezed Edward's thigh.

"For the first six months I was there," Ed went on, "I didn't see any sign of Envy, but when I did find him, he was aching to get out of that place as much as I was." Edward winced a little at the memory. "It started out minor. He got headaches and nosebleeds. He got sick a lot. Before long, he started to loose fine motor skills. He stopped being able to write or turn the pages of books. Then he couldn't walk very well, and then he couldn't walk at all. I remember when he stopped talking. That was a mixed blessing."

Winry laughed softly, just a breath.

"It's like watching someone devolve. His mind just sort of... decayed. I remember," Edward swallowed hard, "I remember looking at him when he was lying there, staring at nothing, and I remember thinking that he was my ticket out. Can you believe that? I was trying to figure out how I could use his death to get back here." Edward laughed coldly at himself. "Alchemists are monsters."

"Alchemists are human," Winry corrected him. She remembered what Mustang had said. _Alchemy is for men who need more control than they can have naturally._ By that logic, alchemists, she thought, were even more human than the rest of them. They were more of this world, more enmeshed with matter than any non-alchemist could ever imagine. And Winry knew she never could fully understand what a nightmare this place, this _Germany_ had to have been for Edward. The powerlessness. She couldn't even cognize.

"So, what happened?" Winry asked.

The explanation Edward had was heavy with terms he doubted Winry knew. So he gave her the short answer. "The Gate swung open to take Envy when he finally died, and I went with him."

That, Winry could tell, was all he was going to say on the subject. Whether she understood it all aside, Edward had said it, and that was all that mattered. Winry rose to her feet, turned the stove off, and helped Edward up. He accepted, and Winry closed her fingers around his metal hand, felt the rigidity of his non-flesh. His fingers were unyielding under hers. Just as he was so often unyielding with her. But perhaps talking about Germany had taken the fight out of him because he did not resist when Winry took him upstairs, coaxed him into sitting, his back to the headboard. He watched her undress, and he did not resist when she settled across his lap, when she put his hands, metal and flesh alike, on her skin. She laced her fingers through his hair. She put her hands on his coarse cheeks and kissed the deep furrow between his brows. They made slow, easy love to each other as Winry did her best to bring Edward back here, to ground him here, in his bed, with her.

Edward would never tell her when he needed comforting. She knew that. So, instead, Winry decided that, until they could figure out how to do this together-business without hurting each other, she must remember that Edward still carried wounds that had nothing to do with her. And first and foremost, Edward probably needed comfort.


	14. Alfresco

**XIV. Alfresco**

"At this point," Ross said from where she stood at the window, "We need to determine where the bodies are being dumped. To do this, I think we need to do a sweep of the banks as far as three miles upstream from the most recent crime scene." She turned to her briefcase sitting in a wooden chair against the wall and produced a map of Central. Ross turned and unfolded it on the bed in the center of the room and smoothed it. Mustang came directly up to her left and leaned over the map. Havoc and Edward seemed more reluctant to approach the bed. "This is where Elizabeth Dotty was found," Ross said pointing at a red X on the north bank of the Teague. A thin line across the river represented the bridge under which the body, now identified, had been found. "I think the chances of our getting into the crime scene itself now are nil, so we've got to get a little creative."

Creativity, it seemed, had been penciled into the Double-A mission statement in the last few days. When Lieutenant Ross came in that morning with a look of determination on her face and an announcement that she had a plan, Mustang knew immediately that she was declaring ownership of the case she had once shunned, the case that, if they knew what was good for them, they should all shun. For that reason, he closed the office and took them all, to Edward's _horror_, to the safe house.

"Amity is gonna eat me alive if she finds out I was here," Havoc had whimpered as he followed Mustang inside. The line of soldiers made a rather comic tableau, with Mustang at the front—an easy confidence in his step as he procured a room from Madam Christmas—and three subordinates in a variety of stages of mortification, ranging from Ross's tense consternation to Edward's barely contained panic.

Now, the entirety of the Abuse of Alchemy Division stood in a small, dim room—an hourly rental, Madam Christmas had explained; she wouldn't waste a nightly rental on their little powwow. The sun filtered sluggishly through the gossamer red curtains and made the room seem almost smokey, and the lamp Mustang clicked on by the bed shown pink and canary through the shade. The muted paisley wallpaper, the cotton ruffles on the linens, and the artwork bolted to the walls made for a very unusual conference room, and it was that incongruity that allowed for Ross's candor.

"Once we identify some potential locations," Ross went on, "we can stake them out. Until then, I suggest we start here," Ross bent against the bed and pointed to a wide, green patch on the north bank of the river, two miles or so from the most recently-add red X. She brandished a red marker and circled the spot. "This is Patton Park." Named for General Patton, Edward thought dryly, who had stormed south from Drachma to conquer and impregnate the natives and, one day, settle Amestris.

"You don't think that will look a little suspicious," Havoc said, still moving somewhat rigidly as he tried to keep his pant legs from brushing the bedspread. "Four officers nosing around a municipal park upriver from the crime scene?"

"Ah!" Ross said, putting up her index finger. "That's what I thought, too. So, I suggest we make this as civilian-looking as possible."

"What? You want us to have a tea party in the park to hide the investigation?" Edward asked facetiously.

Ross put her arms akimbo. "Actually, I was going to suggest we have a picnic. Off the clock. Out of uniform. We'll divide the bank into segments," she said and demarcated mile-long sections on the map, "and take shifts inspecting our designated areas. There are walking trails all along the bank," Ross traced a few of the paths with her red marker, "and there are boat slips here and here." She marked them as well. "I think it will be easy to blend in with the civilians and hunt up some leads."

"How's this," Edward offered a little tartly, "We dump this plan, get the hell out of this cathouse, and I'll get back into the crime scene on my own. I think that's a great idea."

"No, Edward," Ross replied just as tartly, "That's a very _stupid_ idea." She leaned over and wrote _STOOPID_ across a stretch of road very near where Ed and Havoc had been apprehended. Mustang and Havoc snorted.

"What?" Edward snarled.

Havoc dropped a hand on Ed's shoulder and the younger solider looked up at his subordinate. "I think she's right, Chief," he said. "You saw where the direct approach got us last time."

"All right, fine," Edward conceded, still bristling from the stoopid comment. "But if we're trying to do this _au naturel, _I'm going to be honest here and say that no one would buy that the four of us go to the park after work to bond. We might as well try to convince anyone who sees us that we're at this brothel because it's where our book club meets."

"I don't know," Havoc offered, scratching his chin, "I bet we could rustle up some interesting literature around here." He lifted the bed skirt with his boot and peeked under. Ross dropped her face into her hand with a groan.

Before this could get any worse, Mustang interceded. "So how do we make it _au naturel_, as Fullmetal so delicately put it?" He resolved to avoid all the humor and mortification that could come from having a discussion of being _au naturel_ in a brothel.

"You're actually considering this?" Edward asked, gesturing to the map on the bed between them.

"I am," Mustang replied. "So far, only you and Lieutenant Havoc have seen any part of this case that wasn't on a piece of paper. With the morgue on red alert and Berman's watchdogs patrolling the crime scene, I imagine this is the only chance I'll get to do more than read a police report."

"Feeling useless, General?" Edward prodded, grinning. Havoc snorted and then tried to cover while Ross held her breath.

Mustang didn't flinch. "On the contrary, Fullmetal. You know what they say. If you want something done right, you've got to do yourself," Mustang replied, his voice the sort of smooth and velvety that he pulled out only when he was just barely keeping his hands from Edward's trachea.

Edward looked like he was about to lunge across the bed, metal fist a-swinging, but Ross sliced through their staring match with an irritated, "Can we attempt to focus?"

"If you don't mind," Havoc chimed, "I'd like to spend as little time in the Mustang family resort as possible."

"It's a wonder anything gets done in my office with all the _damn comedians_," Mustang said to Havoc, who was grinning unabashedly at his superior.

"All right, all right," Ross warned. "Bright ideas? How do we make the investigation of the riverbank as nonchalant as possible?"

"Why don't we make it a party?" Havoc suggested. "Amity'll come out. Ed can bring his lady friend. General, you can..." Havoc hesitated and then suggested, "I bet you could rent a date for the afternoon."

"_Enough already,_" Mustang and Ross barked simultaneously while Edward snorted into his fingers. Havoc held up his palms in surrender.

"Okay. I'm done. I'm done," he reassured them. When Ross continued to frown at him, he added in a tone of mock gravity, "Seriously. I'm focused."

"Good," Mustang intoned, a weight in his voice. "Because, lest we forget, Miss Dotty makes the sixth dead woman on our hands—not to mention the sixth dead _child—_and we're no closer to preventing another murder than we were when we started." Edward looked at his feet. Ross and Havoc exchanged a glance. "Now, if we're ready to make some progress, I'm going to suggest that we reconvene in Patton Park this evening at six. I don't particularly like the idea of involving civilians in this, but we need a smoke screen."

"Should we tell them?" Havoc asked. "What this is actually about, I mean?"

"No," Mustang answered quickly. "The less they know, the better."

"Then it's settled," Ross said. "Bring a date."

Havoc grinned. "Who are you going to bring, Lieutenant?"

Ross's cheeks turned pink, and she looked toward the ceiling. "I'm sure I'll think of something," she replied tightly.

"Yeah, right," Ed goaded. "She's bringing Denny."

Ross's glare was thoroughly undermined by the deep blush from her hairline into her uniform collar.

Had it been up to Edward, he would have snagged Alphonse away from his summer reading, popped into the grocery for a twelve pack, and headed to Patton Park; on the drive, he would do as he was explicitly told not to and catch Al up on all the details of the case. While he was at it, he planned to break the news that Al was going to be an uncle—_surprise!—_and face the backlash of that. Al, having spent the last year or so taking every permutation of an Anatomy and Physiology class he could squeeze into his schedule, would certainly have plenty to say about all the things Ed could have done to prevent this. And, boy, was _that_ ever a conversation Ed did not want to have with his kid brother.

Ed was spared from that, however. Winry, who had, true to her word, moved back into her apartment but was still spending enough time at Ed's to make it hard to tell, came out of his kitchen with Sophia just in time to catch them discussing their outing by the front door. The Tringhams would have undoubtedly wanted to tag along as well had they not already holed themselves up in the Central Library for some undisclosed research.

So, Edward, Alphonse, Winry, Sophia, and a tub of potato salad headed to Patton Park. On the drive out, Edward explained that they were going to be meeting up with the other members of the Double-A, and it was not lost upon him how quiet Winry became when he said this. He stole a glance at her in his rearview mirror. She was looking out the window, her brow knit.

When they arrived, Jean and Amity Havoc, Mustang, Maria Ross, and Denny Bloche were already spreading out around a picnic table, unpacking watermelon, potato chips, ropey pretzels, and lots of beer. They were, perhaps, a hundred yards away from the river bank and right next to a walking path that led to a playground populated by a passel of shrieking children. Women with little dust-mop dogs, teenagers walking hand-in-hand, and young mothers pushing ruffled prams ambled by their table without a glance. Had Edward not known any better, this group of his co-workers and various hangers-on—all in summertime civvies, all relaxed or affecting relaxation—might have passed for a group of friends.

It was clear from the looks on his co-workers' faces that they were not expecting him to arrive with a bevy of civilians, one of whom no one recognized.

Ed greeted Denny first as he had not seen him since his surprise birthday party. Complete with a loud, hibiscus-print button-down, Denny stood from his bench, leaned over the table and shook Edward's hand. With a significant look to Ross, Ed remarked that he had a feeling he'd be seeing Denny that evening. Mustang and Havoc laughed good-naturedly—Ross, of course, blushed and scowled—and this exchange made Ed feel a little less like he was part of an envoy to the grown-ups table.

They settled themselves around the table, and only too late did it occur to Edward that he should have done something thoughtful like sit Sophia between Winry and Al, the two people least likely to give her a hard time for being pretty and shy and young. However, he did not think of it, and Sophia ended up between Winry and Amity. And while Winry was notably quiet and focused on carefully spitting out each individual watermelon seed, Amity proved to enjoy playful tormenting as much as Havoc did. Across the table Ross and Denny probed Al for funny med school stories—and Al had some real doozies_—_ and poor Sophia got stuck with the Havocs, who thought she was the cutest little country mouse they'd ever seen, and Mustang, who clearly got his jollies making women half his age blush even if they put their noses in the air and insisted that they were spoken for.

And Edward watched Winry watch her hands. Despite how much he would have preferred she not join them—he wanted her as far from this case as she could get without breaking up with him—he preferred seeing her upset over something even less. He felt a little confused. She seemed fine when they left the house.

He batted her gently with his knee. Winry jumped and looked over at him.

"Something bugging you?" he asked lowly, although, sandwiched between the two larger conversations, they would need to be shouting to be noticed.

She smiled and waved at him dismissively. "My stomach's a little unsettled," she said. "You know."

Edward could tell she was lying. He knew he wasn't going to get the truth out of her there, though, so he dropped it. Nevertheless, he was irked.

When he'd had his fill of pretzels and potato salad, Edward decided it was time to take the first shift, as they had discussed he would during the meeting in the _Honey Pot._ After him, Maria Ross would take her shift, and then Mustang, leaving Havoc with Amity, who would, understandably, be feeling a little too pregnant to go for a mile-long walk by the river.

Edward stood and stretched his arms over his head, reaching for a sky whose paling blue signaled a waning day. The sun hung over Central's angular skyline, turning the usual engine oil sheen and coffee-colored runoff of the Teague into a patchwork of blues and greens.

"I think I might stretch my legs," Ed said, rubbing the back of his neck. In truth, the bustle of voices at the table was beginning to wear on him, and as the yelps of children had died down, the distance of path he was to patrol was growing quite appealing. "Al?" Edward said, turning to his brother.

Al clapped his palms against his thighs and hopped up. "I think I'll join you, brother," he said.

Edward noticed the assortment of furtive glances tossed at Winry, who was picking at a rusty staple in the side of the table top. He did not mean to meet Mustang's gaze. But he did. And as soon as he did, he wanted to ask his colleagues at what point any of this became their damn business. He remembered then that Winry and Mustang were bestest buddies now. So Mustang probably got blow-by-blow replays of a great deal of Edward's business. Al couldn't have extricated himself from the picnic table faster.

They headed west, away from the most recent crime scene, and the young sycamores, with their fluttering, jagged-toothed leaves, shaded the path from the low-hanging sun. Winry watched Edward slip his hands into his pockets while Alphonse swung his arms in that slightly ungainly, sinewy gait of a teenaged boy, his body perhaps a touch too big for him.

Something in Winry's chest constricted at the sight of them. They were back to being a matching set now. There was such a rightness to that, a feeling she had once thought she would never have again, a sensation of a handful of pieces fitting together, of the machine that powered the momentum of her life being back in balance.

She put a hand over her lower abdomen, quieted her mind, and looked inside for a flutter. There was none yet, but she knew it was only a matter of time before she couldn't pretend. What an overhaul her machine would need then.

When Winry looked up, she caught Mustang watching her.

"Anyone else want ice cream?" Winry blurted out, snatching the attention of everyone at the table. "I could kill for some ice cream." She put her hands down flat on the table and stood up. She tried to slip out from the bench, but in her hurry, her feet seemed to catch on everything, even themselves. When she finally freed herself, she turned her back to the table and marched toward the little concession stand near the parking lot.

Mustang and the others exchanged puzzled glances. "Trouble in paradise?" Bloche asked, cracking a grin.

"Oh, dear," Sophia said, putting her fingers against she chin. "I was afraid this would happen."

Amity leaned toward Sophia. "What would happen?" she asked.

Sophia looked somewhat ashamed to be speaking of it, but with every moment she fretted, her audience became more and more anticipatory. "I don't imagine Major Elric talks about it much at work, but..." Her cheeks pinked, "You know, Miss Winry moved out last week."

Amity sucked her teeth in disappointment. "Aw," Havoc said, frowning. "That's too bad."

"That explains why he's been grouchier than usual," Ross offered.

Sophia went on to explain that, while she hoped they could repair things, she thought their "playing house" was never appropriate to begin with. And that got Havoc and his wife grinning and chuckling and don't-knock-it-'til-you-try-it-ing, and in the bustle of laughter and mortification, no one noticed General Mustang rising from his seat and slipping away in the direction of the parking lot.

Once the voices at the picnic table had melted away and the playground was behind them, Al expected his brother to begin explaining to him what they were doing there. But as the moments passed and Edward seemed ever-absorbed in his own thoughts, Alphonse thought he might go ahead and let Edward know he knew something was up. "I have to tell you, brother," Al said, looking upward at the layers and shades of green in the canopy, "There has to be a more straightforward way to canvas a crime scene than this."

Edward looked up from the rock he was kicking and gawked at his kid brother.

Al smiled. "We're trying to hunt around the river bank for anything that might point toward whoever killed that girl, right? What was her name? Miss Dotty, I think?"

"Jeez, Al," Edward muttered, "Can't get anything past you."

"Well, I can read a newspaper, brother," Al informed him. "I'm guessing, because we're two miles or so up the bank from the bridge, that you're looking for where they might have dumped her body." Al looked over at the river. "You don't think it's very likely, though, that they would try that in a municipal park, do you? There are so many lights here. Plus, I bet there are police patrols through here every hour."

"This is just someplace to start," Ed said. "We're taking shifts, and Mustang will be walking all the way back to the bridge from here. Judging by the speed of the river and the estimated time of death, I can't imagine the body could have been dumped much farther upriver from here."

"The body must have been unruly," Al went on, thinking out loud. "Messy and hard to move. They probably wanted somewhere they could pull a vehicle directly up to the water. A boat slip or something."

"Too conspicuous," Edward said.

"But you've got to admit, brother," Al countered, "If they weren't comfortable with some conspicuity, they'd find a better way to dispose of the bodies."

Ed stopped walking and looked at his brother. "What?"

"Well, I mean, look at the number of victims that have been found. There are ways to dispose of bodies where they don't get recovered. There's an incinerator in the basement of the hospital full of tonsils and appendices, but after it's been turned on, there's no distinguishing."

Edward furrowed his brow. He never remembered his brother having such a flip attitude toward mortality—but the subject really hadn't come up that often since Alphonse had started school. Still, as troubling as this was, Edward was more concerned by another notion: "That's assuming we've found all the victims."

They both got quiet at that.

Winry skipped the ice cream. Something cold and sweet did not sound nearly as good as a tall glass of nobody-giving-her-sympathetic-looks, so getting away from that picnic table was more than enough. She snorted. They were concerned that Edward had opted out of inviting her along for a stroll? They didn't even know the half of it.

Well, one of them did.

She sat on a bench facing the parking lot, her feet apart and her knees pressed together, her elbows on her thighs and her chin in her palms. And, boy, did everything suck sometimes. Edward could tell that something was eating her, and she loved him and she loved him and she loved him but she didn't know how long she could go before she told him that, while his eyes might be like the sun to her, someone else had an eye like a new moon and it was hanging low in her sky, reminding her of what she had done—what she wanted to do.

He had sat on the opposite end of the table, laughing at Havoc's jokes and teasing Sophia, and Winry, at first, wished she could be as readily okay with their indiscretion as he was, but then she remembered the look on his face right before he left her apartment—his hair still askew where she'd pulled it and his shirtfront still wrinkled from her grip—and then she wished she knew how to pretend as seamlessly as he did. And then she remembered meeting his gaze after Ed and Al had left, and she wished that she had been the one to have the guts to look at him first, to put him on the spot and make him feel like a coward for keeping his eye averted.

What she wouldn't give for someone to talk to about this. She thought maybe she could just talk it out of her system then. Talk the urge away, like teeth grinding away at hard candy that she could then swallow and forget about. Then, when that was over, she could deal with the shame.

One thing at a time. Please, just one.

The number of cars in the parking lot was decreasing and decreasing as the evening wore on, and Winry could see the small grouping of what lingered: Maria Ross's, sand-colored and conservative; Havoc and Amity's sleek little coupe with the canvas top down; the General's wide, black sedan, imposing and heavy like Edward's. The General's car, however, had significantly fewer dings in it, which Winry thought was a little amusing considering the man had only one eye.

Edward's car was parked away from the cluster, close enough that Winry could see her bowed reflection in the long, dark side. She could see her distorted face and wobbly legs and the figure approaching behind her with his shirtsleeves rolled up and his coat over his arm. She didn't have anything to say to him, so she pretended not to notice.

"Get lost on your way to the concession stand?" the General asked. She saw him drape his coat over the back of the bench and rest his hands on either side of it.

Winry didn't bother feigning surprise. "Nope," she answered simply.

When the General was quiet, Winry hoped that maybe he'd picked up on how not receptive she was to having this conversation. But, no. "I'm going to assume by the death threats I did _not_ receive that you haven't told Edward anything."

Had Winry been drinking anything, she would have spewed it over the pavement. As it was, she choked on her own breath and began coughing into her hand. She heard him laughing behind her, and when she could speak again, Winry glared over her shoulder. "What's so damn funny?" He had that amused look in his eye that made her feel exposed and mocked simultaneously. Winry wondered if this was simply what it is like to be acquaintances with the General.

"You'll have to excuse me for being brusque. I had been hoping to speak to you, although I didn't think it would happen without some finagling." He turned his gaze out to the parking lot and dropped his elbows to the back of the bench. "But, by some happy mistake, here you are."

He didn't sound terribly happy about it.

Winry wondered if he were angry she was there. That thought alone irritated her. She crossed her arms over her chest. "Well, you got the _mistake_ part right," she grumbled. "And, no, I didn't tell Edward."

"That's for the best," he went on. "I don't suppose there's much to tell him anyway."

Winry turned and gawked at him.

"What? We didn't do anything."

She felt her face heating up. "We did plenty."

Winry wished, as soon as the words were out, that she could pluck them out of the air and pop them back into her big, dumb mouth, and then she would smile disarmingly because _mmm mmm, doesn't awkward, unsolicited vulnerability taste good?_

But he was right. They hadn't really done anything. On the continuum of things that might count as cheating, she was just dipping her toes. Edward's continuum might be different from hers, though, and the General's, she thought with a sidelong glance at him, was _definitely_ different from hers. By Edward's scale, she'd broken this fragile agreement that was their relationship; by the General's, she'd probably just barely registered.

But what did the General's opinion matter? He didn't matter!

"You still have my pajamas," Winry heard him say.

"You forgot them," she retorted, frowning at wisps of clouds in the sky.

"I assumed I hadn't fulfilled the stipulations of their ransom."

That gave her pause. What else could he have thought he was supposed to do, Winry wondered. He came over. He ate her cooking. He made her laugh with his dumb jokes. They'd almost succeeded in inadvertently seducing each other. And then he left. The only thing unfulfilled was the seduction...

Then she got it. Winry glared straight ahead. "I burned them," she snapped.

Mustang hesitated. "You burned them?" he repeated slowly, incredulously.

"Yes," Winry went on tightly. "I threw them in the furnace in the basement 'cause I was sick of looking at them."

She was being a child and she knew it. She looked down at herself, arms knotted together and legs twisted defensively. If she was ever going to resolve this, she had better just stop fighting and resolve it.

Winry sighed in defeat. Her arms slumped to her sides. "No, I didn't burn them. They're sitting on my dresser at home, waiting."

"And what, dare I ask, are my pajamas waiting for?" He was humoring her. Like she was little girl.

She turned and looked at him. "For you to come and get them."

"I've been meaning to ask you, brother," Alphonse began. They had slipped off the path and been picking their way along the concrete bank for some time now, and Alphonse stood back to observe the river—as bright and colorful at sunset a Denny Bloche's shirt—while Edward shuffled the toe of his boot through dead leaves and debris clustered in depressions in the pavement.

Ed didn't look up from the trash when he said, "What's that, Al?"

"Winry's pregnant, isn't she?"

Ed almost toppled into the water, he straightened so fast. He turned to his kid brother, his mouth a little slack. "You... uh... you figured that one out all on your own, then?"

Alphonse shrugged. "She started throwing up and stopped drinking. Plus, the odds were against you if you were trying to hide it, brother: I'm onto the reproduction chapter in my summer reading text." His shoulders slumped a little. "I swear, everywhere I go, I see uteruses."

Ed scratched the back of his head. "I've only been seeing the one lately."

Al waited for his brother to go on, share his and Winry's plan of action. When Edward turned back toward the river, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and slouched a little, Alphonse knew Edward had no idea what he was into. Al walked across the cracked cement to stand at his brother's side.

"What will you do?" he asked.

Edward was quiet for a while. Then he cleared his throat and swallowed, and none of this was particularly reassuring the Al. "I don't know."

"Winry told me she's moving out."

"That's _her_ solution."

"Wow, brother," Al said dryly, "_Solution?_" he repeated.

Edward rubbed his eyes with his flesh hand. "Fuck. I know. I just can't make my brain see it any other way. It's a problem that needs solving."

"I bet you'll feel differently once you meet the kid," Al said, grinning at his brother. But the look that Edward turned on him wiped the grin off his face.

Edward looked terrified. Scared as a child. "That's just it, Al," he said. "What if I don't?" He turned away then, almost as though he was ashamed to admit that the thought had occurred to him.

They had faced death. More than that, they had bargained with death. And after some leg work, they had come out with upper hand. No one does that, Al knew. He was learning to be a doctor and he knew, the first thing you learn in Biology 101, is that life is a contract with nonnegotiable terms. And the only person Al had ever met who had managed to stage a parley on that last proviso was his brother, Edward, who now stood before him, the color drained from his face, his eyes wide and white in the gloaming, scared to helplessness because of _life_.

"If you think you're scared," Alphonse said, "Imagine how Winry must feel right now."

Because if Alphonse knew his brother—which he did—he knew that Edward was, bless him all to hell, too blindly wrapped up in his own uncertainties to see past the effect all this was having on him. And when Edward's mouth slid closed and his brow furrowed and he turned to look at the river, Al knew that he had just introduced a concept that had not yet occurred to his older brother. Or at least he had introduced it in a way that Edward got.

"Do you know how far along she is? Is she still getting sick?" Alphonse asked.

"I don't know."

"Does she have a doctor?"

Edward shook his head. "I don't know."

"Okay, so, that's a good place to start," Al went on. When Ed continued to stare at the river, his eyes searching the waves for _something_, Al laughed. Ed, clearly, did not appreciate that. "All the other stuff aside, brother, there are some simple, objective things that you've got to do," he explained. "And when all that is taken care of, then you can worry about the rest." Like the fact that neither of them would know what a good father looked like even if one came up and bit them? Yeah, like that.

Ed sighed. He looked down at the trash floating by his feet. "You know, Al," he said. "I don't know if I can handle this one."

"I'll tell you this much, brother," Al replied. "Your usual technique of handling everything alone isn't going to cut it this time."

"The others are probably wondering where you've gotten off to," Winry said before licking away the leaking drops of melted ice cream at the top of the cone. She held the cone up in her right hand, close to her mouth, and wedged her left into the back pocket of her shorts.

"I told them I was stretching my legs," Mustang lied as he slid the change from the concession stand into his wallet. He had passed on getting ice cream of his own as he was already carrying his coat over his arm, and having his hands so occupied made him twitchy.

As they began walking vaguely toward the river by way of the perimeter of the parking lot, Winry hopped up onto the curb and stepped carefully, heel-toe-heel-toe, like a gymnast on a beam, while Mustang slowed his pace across the asphalt to match hers.

"So, you guys are working on something big right now, aren't you?" Winry asked around a mouthful of crunchy cone. "Something too big to talk about, I mean."

The last time Mustang had bought anyone ice cream, it had been for Elysia on the anniversary of her father's death. The time before that, he'd bought Riza two scoops of turtle tracks before asking her to move in with him. Buying ice cream for Winry felt rather like an uncomfortable mix of both. "You don't suppose I would tell you if we were, do you?" Mustang asked. He couldn't resist. "What with this potential-something being too big to talk about."

She raised her eyes from her feet to frown at him. "Very funny," she said. She opened her mouth to continue, but with her focus elsewhere, her foot slipped over the curved edge of the curb. Her ankle buckled, and her weight tipped to the left. Perhaps she would have righted herself after stumbling had Roy not intervened, but he intervened anyway. He caught her arm as she tripped off the curb. Her shoulder bumped his chest. They took a pair of clumsy steps together and then shared a pair of clumsy moments in incredibly close proximity, and then Winry was flushing and stepping away. She spun around so fast that her golden tail of hair whipped across his throat.

He could smell the lavender in her soap. The skin on her arms slipped under his fingers, hot to the touch and slick with sweat, and he could see the pale impression his grip had left on her.

Distantly, he felt like an idiot. But creatures of habit learn to associate rewards with triggers, and that brush of cornsilk could have been the password at a doorway into a backroom of rewards he'd not enjoyed in almost half a year. With their first bout of trespasses long enough past to be forgiven and the next bout—he assumed neither of them actually had the will to stop now—nothing but the wafting scent of anticipation, every little plane of her became a provocation, every motion a summons. Had he always been this hypersensitive? Or was it just the embarrassingly long, unintentional vow of celibacy getting to him?

Winry, it seemed, decided to deflect how frighteningly close they had been by picking up where they had left off. "You know, Edward never talks about work. He's so secretive."

And the _last_ thing Roy wanted to talk about was Fullmetal.

"He says everything is a national secret, but I know he's lying." She waved dismissively. "He just wishes he was that important."

Options were limited, it seemed. "What if I told you he wasn't lying?" Mustang asked.

Winry laughed. "I would think that _you_ were wishing you were more important, too."

Mustang smiled. It was not terribly often a woman turned her nose up at his rank. "Ah, Miss Rockbell, you have no idea," he went on. "Clearly, you don't appreciate how important I already am."

"Uh huh," Winry intoned. "And you were going to be the next fuhrer if they hadn't scrapped the position, right?" She was smiling at him again in that unabashed, guileless way that only an unworldly person could. That was such an improvement, her lips blooming like a tea rose pinched between her teeth. And was there no liquor sweeter than the undivided attention of a young woman.

"That is classified, my dear."

It was possible that Winry was not aware of her own actions, but Mustang would not delude himself into believing she was so naïve as that: she lifted her ice cream cone to her mouth and tilted her head just so, wrapped her lips around the leaking tip, and sucked away the pearly drips threatening to trickle down her wrist. With her head raised like that, the long, pale curve of her throat was exposed, a cygnetine bend.

If she wanted to open the door to that back room, he would not stop her. He was not entirely certain he could: the backs of his fingers remembered the flesh of her hips, soft and finely haired.

"Winry," he began, the gravity of his implication pulling his tone down and down like a stone in water.

"Huh?" she said, looking up at him.

He noticed then that she was not fluttering her lashes at him, peering up through the blonde fringe at him, affirming all the parallels he was drawing. No, in fact, she was awkwardly cupping her free hand under her chin and laughing at her difficulty.

He supposed that he had to appreciate that, the unselfconsciousness of her actions. So few women behaved that way around him, and this indifference was alluring all on its own. Perhaps it was the atmosphere of unattainability that surrounded her—the same cool distance that had surrounded Riza.

Mustang frowned. The lesson was still the same, it seemed: he needed to learn how to let a woman be a friend. Because if it were left up to him, he'd still screw it up every time.

"What?" she asked, blinking her blue eyes—not russet and fruitwood, dammit—at him.

"A word of caution, Miss Rockbell," Mustang said, "Learn to turn it off."

A thin, young windbreak of white pines bordered the western periphery of Patton park, and through the slender bodies of adolescent trees, Edward could see a chain link fence. Past that was the neglected far end of a parking lot. The concrete was cracked and pushed up in places by recalcitrant slips of grass and pert dandelions.

Edward and Alphonse glanced around themselves, but the children and mothers had left and the swaying teenaged couples were lingering around the swing sets and picnic tables. They were alone when they darted into the windbreak, pine straw crunching softly underfoot. Alphonse reached the fence first. He reached up over his head, curled his fingers into the metal and wedged a toe in. Edward lingered at the base a moment longer, looking back over his shoulder.

"So, uh," he began as casually as he could, "How're things going with Doctor What's-His-Bucket?"

"Really, brother," Alphonse grunted as he hauled himself up and up. Once he could toss his torso over the top of the fence and rest his solar plexus against the bar, he finished, "The man has a name. It's—"

"Lawson, yeah, I know," Edward said as he started scaling the fence as well. "Dr. Lawson."

Alphonse swung one leg, then the other over the top bar, and then dropped lightly onto the broken concrete. "Things are going well," he said. "Really well, actually."

Edward followed his brother and dropped somewhat less lithely to the ground. "You sound surprised," he said as he wiped the sweat and grease from his hands on his pants.

"Yeah, kinda."

The warehouse district opened up before them. What had once been Central Paper—a sprawling chessboard of plants, storage, and shipping docks that had faltered when the city grew large enough and important enough to insist against the general foulness of a paper mill—had been divvied up among other, less vile manufacturing. Across the parking lot, the wide, flat, brown face of the first warehouse loomed, dull, square windows glinting in the sunset. Across the wall, in place of a sign, was painting in black and white the words, "Baity's Machining." Edward recognized it as a plant where they machined car parts. It seemed as good a place as any to start.

"You're going to laugh if I tell you about it," Al said as they started back toward the river.

Edward put up his hands. "I won't, I swear," he promised.

Al didn't look entirely convinced, but he gave in. "He told me to write it all down."

Edward was quiet for a moment. "You mean, like... in a _diary?_"

Al scowled. "Yes, Ed. Like in a diary," he intoned.

They had to pause for Edward to guffaw as loudly and broadly as he could manage. Alphonse stood patiently by, his arms crossed so that he could easily glance down at his leather-strapped wrist watch. And Ed hammed it up as long as he thought he could get away with it. He took his time wiping his eyes.

"_Boy_, I hope you never grow out of that, brother," Alphonse said mordantly.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Ed snapped.

Al smiled. "Just wondering if I found you more or less irritating when we were closer in age."

Edward did not think he had ever heard Al mention _the big issue—_meaning, of course, anything that may or may not have happened before they were finally reunited—quite so flippantly. It took him a moment to digest it, and after that moment, he felt some gratitude for it. "I believe by irritating you mean _inspirational_," Edward replied tartly

"Uh-huh," Al drawled.

They followed the edge of the parking lot where the painted lines were almost worn off and the curb crumbled away. A few cars hugged the opposite edge of the lot, closer to the building where the streetlights were flickering on. A narrow, pathetic strip of neglected grass bordered the lot, and Edward and Alphonse rustled through it as they approached the river. The grass ended in a shaggy, unkempt seam and gave way to the concrete slope of the urban river bank. Off to their right, where the park hugged the river, the bank was a high, cobbled shelf, hemmed with a black, iron chain hanging from heavy iron balusters. Ahead of them, the warehouses loomed tall and brown over the water, the pretense of sophistication yielded to practicality. The bank was a cracked sidewalk, bits of refuse clinging to the concrete. As they turned toward the sunset, the river opened to their right, and the warehouses were sheer walls, abutted right up to the concrete slope.

Here, no municipal sidewalk sweepers came by like they did in the park. The water lapped old newspapers and tin cans up onto the concrete, waterlogged branches and a slick coating of oil and an odd sort of chalky, black, unidentifiable filth—perhaps a mix of engine coolant, mud, and decay. It crusted around the edges of their shoes, and Edward stopped periodically to tap his toes against the pavement to shake the scum off.

Alphonse wrinkled his nose. "If there ever was any evidence of anything here, it's probably been buried or washed away."

Ed rubbed his chin. "Maybe we should be looking somewhere else," he mused. He scanned the faces of the warehouses, their rows of black windows, their old, smooth bricks. The river was flooded with orange light from the sunset, and it set the buildings ablaze. Looking down the bank, though, Edward saw the blocks of black between the buildings where alleyways cut back and back from the river to the road, untouched by the streetlights and the sunset. "If I had a need to dispose of a body," Edward said as he broke into a trot, "I'd want someplace dark and secluded and difficult to see from any angle. Someplace where I could back my car right up to the river."

Alphonse skipped a few steps and then began jogging after his brother. They came to the first alley, choked with greying, rotting shipping pallets, stacked a dozen high.

"How far do you think someone would go to cover their tracks?" Edward asked, thumbing at the pallets.

"Not this far," Al said. He pointed at a bent nail sticking out of the bottom-most pallet: where the head touched the concrete, a red-orange rust stain spread out beneath it. "These haven't been move in a long time."

They moved on to the next alley. This one, too, was blocked by a open-topped dumpster where someone had been dumping the remnants of a torn-out bathroom.

The sun was just clinging to the lip of the city skyline, and were it not for the tall, crooked streetlamps, car-knocked and neglected, that dotted the periphery of a bridge just upriver of them, they would have given up searching. But this third alley, between a nail factory and a bottling facility, was what they had been searching for. There was nothing blocking it except a couple of crates that did not quite block off the opening to the river. Edward could not make out the interior of the alley from the bank, so he began climbing up the slope to get a better look.

"You got some matches on you?" Edward asked as he began awkwardly up the steep bank. The concrete was slick with mud and grime, and as he reached the top, his foot slipped out from under him. He flopped forward, his metal knee dropping to the pavement with a loud crack, and threw out his hands to catch himself.

"Careful, brother," Alphonse called and darted forward.

Edward hissed through his clenched teeth. "Fuck," he muttered as the shooting pains zinged up his thigh into his hip. It felt like chewing on tinfoil every time he banged his knee that hard. He managed to level himself up and slid back down the bank to wait for his nerves to quiet. "That was smart," he growled, wincing.

"I hope the General knows better than to put you on any covert ops, brother," Alphonse teased.

Ed glared. He gestured to the slope. "Hey, it's not my fault the smog in this town condenses down to a sludgy—"

"Brother, what's on your hand?" Al cut across him, staring at his outstretched hand.

Edward looked down at his left palm. In the dim light, it could have been mud, but it wasn't gritty. It was slick and gelatinous. He brought it a little closer to his eyes and turned toward the street light. A thin clump of long dark hairs stuck to the stuff.

Alphonse dipped his index and middle fingers into Edward's palm. He then rubbed his thumb over them.

"Is that blood?" Edward asked, staring at Alphonse's ruddy fingers.

"That's blood," Al answered.

Tires squealed out to the parking lot to their right. Winry started, and both she and Mustang looked over in time to see a black sedan taking a fast, reckless left turn onto the main road. Winry squinted in the waning light, disbelieving.

"Was that Edward?" she asked, incredulous and feeling the revving of her victim-engine.

"Your guess is about twice as good as mine," Mustang remarked.

Winry didn't get it and looked back at him, ready to ask him what he meant. But then she saw his face, his mouth quirked the way he always quirked it when he was being dry and self-deprecating. And that eyepatch.

Mustang saw her mouth slacken. She gave him one of the more pitying looks he'd seen on a woman's face—typically they had the decency to save it until he was gone or direct that look to the ground or anywhere but not right at him, right into his one eye.

"That was a joke," he informed her.

"Not funny," she replied darkly.

He wondered if Riza would have laughed.

He watched Winry look back out toward the parking lot, an angry, hurt look on her face. She dropped her eyes and started walking down the path they were following, a winding strip of concrete running between the parking lot and the river, heavy tulip poplar leaves rustling sluggishly overhead. He kept his focus divided as well as he could, devoting some attention to his surroundings. He was, after all, supposed to be covertly searching for a good place to dump a body. Winry Rockbell was not the company he would have chosen, however, had he really been thinking about it before they had both inadvertently guided and followed the other out to the path.

Their shadows stretched long and elastic across the ground ahead of them before the lamps came on and made them into dark stars under their feet. Why had she come out with him again? She swore there was something she meant to say, but she couldn't recall the sentences she'd been practicing. But trying to remember was a much preferable alternative to thinking about Edward and Alphonse, driving off in a great hurry and leaving her behind.

"What is the origin of your name?" she asked instead as she folded her bare arms tight against her chest. Despite the thick, summer humidity, her sweat was cooling on her skin, and it sent the periodic jolt of chill down her spine. With her eyes on her feet, she felt something settle across her shoulders. She looked up to see Mustang lower his arms after dropping his coat over her.

"I believe Roy is derived from the Aerugian translation of the word _king. _It shares an etymology with _royal,_" he explained with a self-satisfied grin. He did that a lot, Winry had noticed—he gloated without actually gloating. Many of the simple truths of a General who, in his spare time, had earned his PhD in Elemental Alchemy came off as gloating.

She rolled her eyes at him. "I meant _Mustang_."

"That one's rather trickier," he said. He looked down at his hands and began adjusting his rolled-up sleeves. "It is the chosen name of my aunt, who had the dubious privilege of raising me. As far as I am aware, she simply made it up."

"What about before that? You had to come from somewhere."

Mustang chuckled. "You must be the only person in Central who missed my front page exposé in the _Times_." Winry frowned at him. "After my daring coup d'état, a loyalist on staff at _Central Times _dug up what he must have thought was a damning detail from the darker annals of my history, the fool. He underestimated the political drawing power of being the underdog." Mustang looked at her, and Winry got the feeling that he was expecting her either to figure it out from that or to have the sense to drop it. She still didn't understand. "I'm the fatherless son of a Xingian immigrant."

Winry felt like an ass. "Oh," she managed. "Jeez. Um. Sorry?"

He laughed again, a sound from deep in his throat. Winry was not entirely certain what she had done, but his laughter beat the pants off his being offended.

"I'm not sure how much it helped to save me from a firing squad, but I am not above exploiting being a poor bastard—literally and figuratively—if the payoff is worth it."

Winry wondered if, perhaps, when someone grows up, things stop bothering them so much. Perhaps that was the pith of it, the touchstone itself.

"So, where do you think _Mustang_ came from?"

He shrugged. "Could have been a box of soap flakes for all I know."

He was being deliberately vague, it seemed, and that made Winry suspect that it was, perhaps, more complicated than he would rather explain. So his origins would remain shrouded, and he would remain a man who had simply made himself from nothing. And try as she might, Winry couldn't help but see his story as the river and hers as the sidewalk, running so near parallel. She looked out toward the city, smelling his aftershave in the lining of his coat.

"Have you ever heard that myth from Creta? The one about the King of the Gods seducing that lady?" she asked.

"I was under the impression that he did that a great deal."

"I mean, the one where he took on the form of a bull to seduce her."

"I'm familiar with it, although I can't say I've ever understood the logistics."

Winry looked over at him. "When I heard your name the first time, that's what I thought of."

He got quiet. For a while. And Winry thought perhaps she had rendered him speechless. She didn't think she would ever see such a thing. He recovered, though, and said, "You're suggesting that I am the product a philandering deity and a woman with an eye for ungulates?"

"Maybe. The Horse King. It fits doesn't it?"

He was looking at her then, zeroing in on her with his one eye like a microscope, and Winry didn't mind. She let him look, and while it had occurred to her once before that she might be falling in love with him, she knew it when she saw his face. It was a quiet gratitude and a humor and an affection like he was seeing something he had not seen in a very long time.

She wondered if maybe he was falling in love with her, too.

"I can't say I've ever considered it," he answered, and Winry wished she could tell what he was actually saying.

"Well, as long as you don't have a more compelling explanation, I'm going to assume that that's the origin of you, General. It's better than soap flakes."

He was quiet again for a moment, and Winry stole glances at the shape of his knuckles in his pockets, the dark hair on his arms, the ropey muscles at his elbows. "You certainly have a positive attitude toward tragedy."

Winry snorted. "Yeah, maybe other people's," she rejoined. For all the mature, objective perspective she could bring to someone else's crises, she usually didn't understand her own until they were long past and thoroughly mishandled. And then she remembered what she had said. And to whom. This was, after all, General Mustang, who had once been Major Mustang, the first tragedy in her life. The man she once blamed for setting the precedent. And she realized what a cruel thing that had been to say. "And, you know, mine, too," she added uncertainly, and then lamely, "Lately."

If he appreciated that, he did not say it. "And what about Rockbell?" he asked, "Where do you come from?"

Oddly, it did not feel so painful to hear him brush so close to the subject. In fact, she thought after a moment, it didn't hurt at all.

"I'm not sure. When I was a kid, my grandma used to tell me that it came from our rock balls."

She must have caught him wildly off guard because he burst out laughing. He laughed so hard that he had to pause to thumb tears out of his eye. And Winry smiled because it felt good to make him laugh. It felt good to make him happy, to let him know that it was okay. In the vacuum left by all the years of animosity once they were washed down the river, everything was okay now. What a comforting fiction this was.

Edward and Alphonse paused only briefly at the picnic table where Ross, Denny Bloche, Havoc, Amity, and Sophia where picking through the last of the watermelon. With a weight in his voice, Edward explained that he and Al had to leave. He was assured that Sophia had a ride home with the Havocs, tucked between the two seats of their two-seater—"Or, she could always sit in Jean's lap," Amity teased, giving Sophia a poke in the ribs, to which the younger girl responded with an upturned chin and a scandalized "_Honestly_, Mrs. Havoc,"—and that Ross and Denny would wait until Winry made her way back. Either no one noticed or cared or wanted to mention that Winry and Mustang were both absent, and Edward resolved to waste no time on the bitter taste in his mouth. If she wanted that manipulative, amoral bastard to be her new little confidant, let her do it. Let them get inside jokes and meet up for lattes and get their goddamn nails done together if they wanted to. Let them have heartfelt talks and bond over Winry's dead parents' dead bodies.

"Brother," Alphonse said over his shoulder, snatching Edward's attention back. The others at the table were exchanging looks as Edward stood over them silently. He sighed hard through his nose.

"If you could just keep an eye out for her," Edward said to Maria. Before he ran past the table to join his brother, Ed caught Havoc's gaze, and his expression did not make Ed feel much better.

He couldn't think about that right now. He'd look at that later.

Edward skidded to a stop by the driver's side door of his car, Alphonse fidgeting at the passenger side. His keys jingled in his hands, and he nicked the paint again and again. His automail hand was shaking. But he couldn't think about that right now. He managed the key into the lock, dropped into his seat, and reached across to unlock Al's door. His brother was barely seated before Edward slammed the car into gear and careened out of the parking lot, his tires screeching across the pavement.

"How do you plan to get in there?" Alphonse asked, his knuckles pale along the edge of his seat.

Edward gripped the steering wheel hard. "I'm gonna bet that creepy coroner spends his evenings hanging out with his buddies in cold storage."

"And you know him well enough to show up whenever you want?"

"No," Edward said plainly. He looked over at his brother. "But Teacher used to tell us not to use alchemy unless we really needed to. So, if we can't get in without it, then we'll damn well get in with it."

Havoc held his wife's hand as she stepped with some effort into the car. Then he helped Sophia in and shut the door. Ross and Denny Bloche waved their goodbyes from Ross's car windows as they pulled out, having been reassured that Winry's apartment was on Mustang's way.

Why she she had suggested it, Winry wasn't entirely sure. Why Mustang had corroborated, she wasn't sure at all. She had given Mustang his coat back before they had returned to the picnic table. She had caught Havoc avoiding the General's gaze, but their otherwise friendly goodbyes didn't disclose anything at all. But Winry had the distinct feeling that she was being talked about. From moment to moment, she shifted between stubbornly not giving a crap and wanting to disappear.

They stood under a street lamp and waved to Havoc while Amity showed Sophia how to tie a scarf around her head like the starlets from moving pictures did to keep hair out of their eyes.

She wondered what her baby would think, what her baby would do, this little cluster of being with too few cells to have grown a fallible judgment just yet. She put her hand over her abdomen, felt Mustang's eye on her, and listened. The baby wanted to know where Edward was.

"Take me home," Winry said.

She felt Mustang gently take her elbow and guide her across the dark parking lot.

The only light around the Carther Building came from the streetlights lining the road. The yellow spills of light stretched across the flat, brown front of the building. Alphonse watched the reflection of the car slipping from black window to black window as Edward drove by. None of the parking spaces along the edges of College and Broadway were occupied, and Edward knew better than to leave his car somewhere so conspicuous. He drove down Broadway past Carther, and Alphonse spotted a side alley in the dark trough between two lights. The lane was unlit and choked with dumpsters, and Edward inched his car slowly up the pavement.

"Oh, lookit," Alphonse whispered, as though spying parties were in the car but had not yet noticed the brothers in the front seats.

Edward looked where his brother was pointing as his headlights spilled over it: a pair of beige, aluminum doors with no jamb divider and no external knob. Presumably, this was a loading dock. They idled up to the door and shut off the car.

They slipped out of the car and crept up to the door.

"So what's the plan?" Alphonse whispered as Edward knelt before the door and ran his hands over the featureless face.

Edward was quiet for a moment. "It ain't knocking."

The sound of Ed's clapping seemed to echo up the vacant lane. Alphonse whipped his head around, expecting to see shadowy men dart into the alley after them. Alchemy crackled behind him, and when Al looked back, Edward had shaped a curved handle out of the door. He rose to his feet, settled his left hand on the door, and reached his right hand inside his coat. He had debated bringing his pistols on what had ostensibly been a trip to the park, and even with the covert investigation in mind, Edward had not anticipated a real need for his sidearm. But now, shrouded in the darkness and curls of stink coming from the dumpsters, about to pull open a door by a handle he'd created, Edward couldn't deny that he felt some comfort slipping his thumb under the break in his holster.

When the thumb break popped open, Alphonse jumped.

"You brought your gun?" Al asked, incredulous.

Edward was about to tell him that, yes, of course, he'd brought his gun, but then he remembered where he was breaking into. The security with whom he'd had a run-in previously was a nosy old woman who probably dialed the phone gingerly so that her nail polish wouldn't get nicked. Edward looked away sheepishly and removed his hand from his coat.

"You can never be too careful," Edward replied dismissively and pulled the door open.

The hinges creaked, the sound ringing down the alley and making Alphonse cringe. Edward slipped through the door first and waved his brother inside.

They entered Carther through a wide hallway, lined with blinded windows, and tiled with checkered olive green and white linoleum that reached up the walls just to under the windows. Most of the windows were dark, except one or two with lamps illuminated near the door. Edward did not expect to find very much company, and certainly not anyone down in the administrative dungeons. As far Edward knew, all these rooms were filled with filing cabinets. Walls and walls of filing cabinets.

Edward darted forward and to the right. He crouched low against the wall, his head below the row of windows. Alphonse fell in line behind Ed and together they crept toward a bend in the hall, around which light was pouring. As he moved forward, Edward began to hear someone moving around. When his shoulder was to the corner in the hall, he heard chair legs scraping across the floor. Then someone was whistling.

Ed leaned his head around and peered down the hall. It was vacant and windowless, and he and Al turned the corner with greater ease. At the very end of this new hallway, a single, wide door was wedged open, a sharp parallelogram of light spilled across the floor, and the thin, off-color notes of whistling were drifting out.

It occurred to Edward as he and Al drew up to the entrance to the morgue that the Bureau might employ interns for the less sought-after night shifts, and he gestured for Al to wait behind him as he inched forward and peered in. The sounds of movement came from around a bend in the room, and once he had crept in and stole a look around the corner, Edward saw, to his relief, Dr. Conner seated at his desk at the rear of the room, pen scratching across paper, the light from his desk lamp gleaming off his glasses. Edward turned back to Alphonse and nodded at him.

"Dr. Conner," Edward announced as they rounded the corner. The coroner started and leapt to his feet so fast it sent his rolling chair shooting backward. "I need to see that body. Elizabeth Dotty," Edward said.

"We need to see the Coroner's report," Alphonse added as they strode directly up to Conner's desk.

Conner was around his desk in a hurry, his arms spread wide to block them. "You can't be here, Major," he said.

Edward was not expecting resistance, but he didn't flinch. "I know you've got Berman breathing down your neck now—"

"It's not Berman I'm worried about," Conner hissed. "You can't be here, Elric, and I can't be seen talking to you."

"What the hell are you talking about _not Berman_?" Ed demanded. "Who else—"

Alphonse put a hand on his brother's arm. "No one saw us come in, Doctor," he reassured. "No one knows we're here. We've been careful. We just need to ask you something."

Conner switched his gaze between the two Elrics. The skin under his right eye was jumping slightly, making the whole frame of his glasses twitch. He looked to Edward to be weighing out his options, and Edward willed as hard as he could for Conner to see that if Edward didn't take this case into his own hands it wasn't going to get solved. These girls would keep rolling into the morgue, and Berman wasn't going to be able to stop it.

"You break into my morgue, you drag along some civilian, and you make demands of me?" Conner asked. He narrowed his eyes and sighed. "If you weren't the first soldier who's come out so far to see Dotty, I'd throw you out, you know that?"

Edward started. "I'm the first?"

Conner laughed a short, dry laugh as he went around to the other side of his desk. "The first and the only, I'm guessing. Normally, I've got investigators beating down my door to get autopsy reports on cases like this. I haven't got a single phone call. Now what is so important you've got to sneak in at ten o'clock at night?"

"Dotty. Did she have any wounds on her head?" Edward asked.

"Blunt antemortem trauma to the occiput?" Alphonse added. He made a knife-like gesture against the back of his head. "Something bad enough to break the skin?"

The doctor gave them a mildly impressed smile. "You've been doing your homework," Conner said to both of them. "So far, that's the only inconsistency in this case. Dotty was knocked out before she was operated on."

"That's your theory?" Edward asked.

Conner blinked. "Sure. Why else would someone crack a hooker in the back of the head?"

Edward and Alphonse exchanged a glance. "I don't think it was deliberate," Ed said. "None of the other bodies showed any signs of having been violently subdued, right? Why would this one?"

"The calcification is consistent with the other bodies, and that leads me to believe that we don't have a copycat killer on our hands. So what's your theory?" Conner asked.

"Whoever was disposing of the body," Al said, "was in a hurry."

Conner narrowed his eyes. He opened his mouth to ask something, but his phone rang just then. He put up a finger on one hand and picked up the receive with the other. "Morgue," he said tersely, his face distracted.

The doctor's mouth went slack. His eyes shot wide. His knuckles turned white around the phone. "_What?_" he demanded. "But how? No, it's not what you think!"

"What is it?" Edward asked, watching all the blood drain from the doctor's face.

"No!" Conner cried into the phone, ignoring Ed. "I haven't told them anything, I swear!"

Ed looked at his brother, who looked as confused and concerned as he did. "Conner, what the hell is—"

He cut Ed off. "You can't! You've got to—tell him to stop, miss! You've got to—" Conner went silent, his mouth open. "O-okay. All right. He's right here." He lowered the phone from his ear and turned his frightened gaze toward the brothers. "He says he wants to talk to you, Major."

"What?" Ed asked. "Who the hell is it?"

Conner shook his head and held the phone out.

"Take it, brother," Al said, his voice low. "Whoever it is already knows we're here."

"Right," Edward said. He had no idea what to expect when he accepted the phone. But whatever he was bracing for, he was not prepared for what he got. Slowly and firmly, he said "What do you want?"

"H-h-hello, Major Elric," a young, feminine voice trembled into the phone. Edward could hear her breath catching in her throat when she paused. "What brings you... t-t-to the m-morgue... so late?" Her voice was shrilled with terror, yet her pitch did not fluctuate.

"Who the hell is this?" Edward demanded.

"You've been pestering... poor Dr. Conner and p-poking... around my g-girls... quite a bit lately," the young woman paused for a long moment. "You've been w-warned, too... but you're so... persistent."

Ed slammed his metal hand against the table. "What the hell is going on? Who is this?"

"U-u-unorth-orth," the girl seemed to have trouble with the word for a moment. "Unorthodox, perhaps. To use a girl... as a m-m-mouthpiece... but you s-seem to be... unwilling to... to ap-appreciate the... g-gr-gravity of the situation."

Edward understood then. Someone was listening in on the line. Whoever it was then wrote his reply and handed it to this girl.

"I thought," the girl went on, her voice shaking so hard she could barely speak, "that if you heard... o-one of the g-g-girls... you'd see." She let out a wrenching sob. "_Please, sir!_" she cried into the phone. "_Please! You've got to—_"

The line went dead.

"Brother?"

The receiver hit the desk with a clatter.

"What?" Edward stammered. "What the hell was that?" He looked at the doctor, who was pale and holding his forehead as though he were exhausted.

"I told you," Conner managed. "I _told_ you I couldn't be seen talking to you."

Driving by her place was doubling Mustang's drive home, and Winry knew it. Still, she stared out the window as the city slipped by. She watched the way her window turned to a mirror of her face when they passed under a streetlamp before blinking back the scene of a sidewalk or trolley stop.

She was so hungry. Having, in her distress, not touched any of the picnic food, she was now quite a few hours past her usual dinner time. She could hear her stomach whining, felt it knotting up. It made her think of her baby, and she wondered if it was hungry, too.

"Where do you think Ed and Al ran off to?" Winry asked.

"I couldn't say," Mustang replied, flat but not unfriendly.

"Do you mean you don't know or..." Mustang glanced over at Winry as she dropped her voice and frowned out her best Mustang impression, "_you couldn't say?_"

He smiled at her, and she couldn't tell if he were actually amused or if he were being generous. "I don't know," he answered.

Which meant he couldn't say. She just knew it. Maybe that's why he agreed to drive her home, Winry thought. Maybe he was feeling guilty. Like he secretly ordered Edward and Alphonse to leave the park on some business. She glanced over at him.

They hadn't even said goodbye. They couldn't even be bothered to let her know they were leaving. What a familiar rut in the road that was. It felt like old times. Being left behind.

"I will say this," Mustang went on, "Edward is working a very important case right now."

"So important that he had to bring Al along?" Winry bit back.

Mustang didn't reply.

The air in the car seem to cool and stagnate in the silence, and Winry rolled her eyes—more at herself than anything else. She wasn't being terribly fair to the poor man. She knew it. Mustang didn't deserve her animus. He was doing her a favor after all. He was going out of his way.

"Sorry," Winry grumbled. She flopped back into her seat and crossed her arms over her chest. "I think being knocked up makes me cranky."

He laughed a real laugh as he pulled the car up close to the curb. Winry looked out her window and saw the sign of Sullivan and Rockbell's hanging motionless in the night, white and bold against the stars. All the lights were out in the windows of her apartment, the moon reflecting silvery off the glass.

"You're going to be playing that card for nine months, you know," Mustang said. "Don't wear it out just yet."

Winry blew a sigh that ruffled her bangs. She was feeling petulant. Like a child. A miffed, whiny child. She didn't know what was more disappointing: Edward bailing on her at the park or her ignominious response. But how else was she supposed to respond? Take it all in stride? Forgive Ed for leaving her there, to fend for herself? Alone with Mustang? Didn't Ed know? Winry did not need anymore alone time with the General, with the way he lavished her with attention, with the fact that she could watch the look on his face all day when she showed him the old, cooled landscape of all that anger that she'd outgrown, when she showed him that he had not sowed salt into her.

She went to steal another glance at Mustang, but she then realized that he had slipped out. He was coming around the car and opening the door for her. She started, sat up a little straighter. She felt her cheeks heating up when he offered his hand. She didn't need it—the man had clearly mastered the one-eyed parallel-park—but she accepted anyway and slid out onto the sidewalk.

Her stomach grumbled again as she approached her door, and Winry put a hand over it. In her mind, she shoved things around in her cabinet, until she remembered a can of soup she'd bought a week before. And maybe sandwiches, too, she thought. Winry glanced at Mustang, wondering if he were as hungry as she. He'd left the table at about the same time she had, so he couldn't have eaten much. After jamming her key into the lock, Winry turned around to Mustang and, thinking of how nice it might be to have company over some soup and grilled cheeses, asked, "Do you want to come upstairs?"

Mustang raised his brow and smiled crookedly at her. "You certainly don't pull your punches, do you, Winry?"

In the moments before she understood, Winry furrowed her brow at him. Mustang continued to smile. But then she got it. Winry almost jumped back away from him.

"That's not what I meant!" she blurted. She was sure her face was so red it was illuminated.

Mustang laughed at her. He was teasing her.

"I'm really hungry, okay? I was thinking about offering you a sandwich, but I think I'll just eat yours for you." Winry set her fists firmly akimbo. "I am pregnant, after all. I'll need all those extra calories. That way, I can get all bloated and gross like a freaking beach ball monster." She folded her arms across her chest. "So. Yeah. Thanks for the sandwich, jerk." _Take that._

She wasn't just being a petulant child. She was being a gravid, petulant child.

"Bloated and gross, huh? That's the miracle of life you're talking about."

Winry scoffed. "If it were such a miracle, not everyone could pull it off."

Oops.

Mustang's smile stayed stubbornly on his face, but the line between his brows deepened, making him look more pained than anything. She was such an idiot.

She stepped forward. "Jeez, Roy, I—"

He silenced her with a hand to her cheek, and Winry froze, her mouth slack. They had been dancing around it all night, avoiding their own intentions, all of which they were both aware of, and the careful distance she'd kept from him and he from her made this contact so visceral, so exquisite. His skin on her skin—his gloves were in his pocket—seemed to suck her awareness up to the surface. She was in his palm, holding her breath, watching him, waiting on him to release her.

"You will be beautiful, Winry," he said lowly.

Winry sucked in a breath. She felt knuckles brushing against the skin below her navel through her blouse. It sent ripples through her nerves, which were all tuned to his touch, all listening and honed. The sensation was too great, and she clapped her hands over his to make him stop.

No one. No one had done something like this to her, had given her any kind of affirmation on this really big and, frankly, terrifying step she was about to take, by all appearances, by herself. This was the first validation she'd felt so far, and it drew her fear up to her skin, opened her wide.

When Winry blinked, she could see the drops of saltwater clinging to her eyelashes. Her voice got stopped up in her throat. "Roy..."

She felt his hand turn against her, felt his palm pressed to her belly. He looked down at her mouth and focused like he was listening for something. "You will be beautiful."

His pulse was thudding through his fingers. She could feel it, and when he pressed on her, Winry could feel her own pulse thundering back. She watched his expression, his concentration as he looked for something that wasn't quite there.

Winry's heart sank. She watched his face and she knew. He wasn't thinking of her at all.

"It's getting late," she managed, stepping backward, leaving Mustang standing there, holding a memory. His hands lingered for a moment where she had been, and then he dropped them to his sides. "Thank you for driving me home, General."

He seemed to regain his composure as well, and his shoulders squared against the backdrop of lamp light. "Any time," he replied.

And because Winry didn't want to make him apologize and she certainly did not feel like giving him the apology she owed him, she said, "Good night, Roy."

He smiled. "Good night, Winry."

She let herself into the front office door and slipped into the breakroom. Winry was about halfway up the stairs to her apartment when she sank down and sat. She listened to Mustang start up his car. She pictured him maneuvering his car out of the space, and once the sound of his engine had disappeared around a turn and Winry was sure he was far enough away that he couldn't hear her thoughts, she allowed herself to wonder. To marvel, really. How did she get so lucky? To be stuck between two men: one who couldn't see her and another who looked at her and saw someone else.


End file.
